Only she hadn’t. "Vill this do?" demanded the constable, taking the candle from the lantern, the better to display the narrow limits of the hole. 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. In the meanwhile, as he talked, he scrutinized her face, ran his eyes over her careless, gracious poise, wondered hard about her. She smiled mechanically at the audience, holding her violin limply, feeling the hot lights on her made-up face.
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