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. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume. Glancing idly up at her own window as they had swung round the corner she had seen a strange thing. But it's best to be on the safe side. This done, he unloosed the pulley, and the ponderous machine, which resembled a trough, slowly descended upon the prisoner's breast. She held out her arm straight before her, and turned her hand this way and that. And since then, he has openly avowed his determination of cutting his master's throat on the slightest inkling of treachery.
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