The man muttered something inaudible, and gathered up the reins. How Jonathan Wild's House was burnt down 458 XXXI. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. A few bricks, dislodged probably by his last descent, came clattering down the chimney, and as it was perfectly dark, gave him the notion that some one was endeavouring to force an entrance into the room. When he awoke it was late in the day, and he was surprised to find Blueskin seated by his bedside, watching over him with a drawn sword on his knee, a pistol in each hand, and a blood-stained cloth bound across his brow. If you had lived twenty years ago you would have been called a Young Person, and it would have been your chief duty in life not to know, never to have heard of, and never to understand. Figg! In a few minutes, all will be over. It's only a gentleman come to offer you his hand. That person advanced towards him. I made it a point to bring beachcombers to the house to fill her with horror of mankind.
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