At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. When Mrs. " "Is the poor lady alive?" asked Mrs. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. My father's chief fear, I must tell you, is from the baneful influence of Jonathan Wild.
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