The well of tears in her eyes was dry. Taking his way along East Smithfield, mounting Little Tower-hill, and threading the Minories and Hounsditch, he arrived without accident or molestation, at Moorfields. Lady Trafford uttered a prolonged scream, and fainted. “But—” The long inconsecutive conversation by that time was getting on her nerves. “Great Scott!” he exclaimed huskily. The chapel was again crowded with visitors, and every eye—even that of Jonathan Wild who had come thither to deride him,—was fixed upon him. He pointed to where the lights still burned in Anna’s windows. What I said about your brat was all stuff.
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