Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard. She crooked her finger. With a well-simulated unconcern and a heightened color she finished her breakfast. She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing. Without a single ornament about her neck, or hair, wearing the plainest of black gowns, out of which her shoulders shone gleaming white, she was easily the most noticeable and the most distinguished-looking woman in the room. And it hampers us.
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