Darting down Field-lane, Jack struck into a labyrinth of streets on the left; but though he ran as swiftly as he could, he was not unperceived. “You’re—I don’t know,” said Ann Veronica. You know they say, as, indeed, I have just quoted already, that all bad poetry is written in a state of emotion, but I have no doubt that this is true of bad offers of marriage. Beware of him, my son! Beware of him! You know not what villany he is capable of. That old chap has a remarkable range in reading. All this Woman-who-Diddery —no damn good.
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