The prisoner, however, submitted more quietly than was anticipated. Her head ached with a hollow pain. “You mustn’t talk any more,” he said, “but I want you to listen to me just for a moment. They were Jonathan Wild and Quilt Arnold. You, for instance, you live, you are not afraid to live. Could you come to tea at my rooms one afternoon, or would you dine with me somewhere, and do a theatre? We could have a private room, of course, if you do not wish to be seen about London, and a box at the theatre. There he stands. She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat.
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