It was you, of course, whom he wanted. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. Except he was the only idiot who would stay. I’ve wanted you—always. . The packets were hastily broken open; and, while Wood was absorbed in the perusal of the despatch addressed to him by Sir Rowland, Thames sought out, and found the letter which he had been prevented from finishing on the fatal night at Jonathan Wild's. . "Shoot him! shoot him! Put him out of hish mishery," cried the Jew.
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