In his way he was critical. The house was full of aunts, uncles, and cousins meandering about, stuffed until their seams and zippers were bursting. She could neither speak nor move nor cry out. 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. She perceived that his countenance was only composed by a great effort, his features severely compressed. Then she threw the volume away with a little impatient exclamation. "You poor child!" said Prudence. .
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