“Act three. The chapel was again crowded with visitors, and every eye—even that of Jonathan Wild who had come thither to deride him,—was fixed upon him. "What do you want?" he asked, in a gruff voice. Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in the King's service. He yelled but he had no breath to support his own voice. The next minute, I contrived, without either of 'em perceiving me, to convey it into my own pocket. He yelled to her, asking her if she wished to have a drink with him, which she refused. She was afraid people would follow her, she was afraid of the dark, open doorways she passed, and afraid of the blazes of light; she was afraid to be alone, and she knew not what it was she feared.
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