Wood, with a look meant to reduce her supposed rival to the dust. He folded the garments carefully and replaced them on the chair. “I have made over seven hundred pounds in the last week,” he said. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. And opposite to him, with a book in his hand,—but it couldn't be a prayer-book,—sat Jonathan Wild, in a parson's cassock and band. He stared at her stupidly, forgetting to guard against the tactics he had come to expect from her. Every slight action is influenced by what he imagines would be the opinion of other people. Looking for something, or someone, probably. Meysey Hill—never your wife.
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