"You musht do dat shob yourself, Mishter Vild," rejoined Abraham, shaking his head. His mind was busy with a résumé of yesterday's unusual events. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. She saw marks in the dirt where he had been pacing. " "Do you happen to know Jonathan Wild, master?" inquired Jack, altering his tone, and assuming a more respectful demeanour.
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