Just as he was about to drain it, he encountered the basilisk glance of Jonathan Wild, and paused. Arrived at Westbourne-Green—then nothing more than a common covered with gorse and furzebushes, and boasting only a couple of cottages and an alehouse—he perceived through the hedges the objects of his search slowly ascending the gentle hill that rises from KensallGreen. "Your name is Spurlock?" "It is. Ruth loved him. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. A small brickbat was thrown, which struck Jonathan in the face. ’ He bowed.
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