The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard. Time was moving so fast, she could no longer count the days since Gosse had come to her with his preposterous suggestion at the Coq d’Or, where they were staying and where he had robbed her and left her and Martha to their fate.
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