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. Lucy kissed him on the cheek. He stood still, almost breathless. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. Paris was full, and it was by no means a retired spot which she had found. In this state of knowledge you will be horribly, irrevocably, alone.
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