Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. But, finding the cellar-door open, concluded he had got out that way. Ruth loved him.
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