She hugged Lucy, who had finished eating. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. She stared at him and thought the words, “My husband, my husband. Get it off your soul. Jonathan Wild's House in the Old Bailey XVII. Can you afford to give this time? There are your own affairs to think of.
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