“And then?” said Ann Veronica. She stood there with white set face and nervously clenched fingers. “But, dear, think! He is your father. “It—it—must come,” she faltered. I overheard Jonathan Wild's instructions to Quilt Arnold, and though he spoke in slang, and in an under tone, my quick ears, and acquaintance with the thieves' lingo, enabled me to make out every word he uttered. He will be hanged—hanged—hanged.
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