CHAPTER VIII. As he was about to descend his chains slightly rattled. You desire to know who he was, Sir Rowland. 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. The nuns, they were very good with a whip. That terrible laughter, just before his senses had left him! Why? Here was a word that volleyed at her from all directions, numbed and bewildered her: the multiple echoes of her own first utterance of the word.
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