So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. “Mere sensuality. It’s time she knew. “My word holds,” she said. 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. " "Be it so!" rejoined Sir Rowland, with concentrated fury; "but before we do part, I am resolved to know the name of your pretended husband!" "Torture shall not wrest it from me," answered his sister, firmly.
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