—Jonathan Wild: August 31st, 1724. ‘This is not love, Marthe. He turned his eyes and stared at Miss Garvice like one who wakes from a reverie, and then got up and strolled down the laboratory toward his refuge, the preparation-room. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. They seed beyond all reason. One day she desisted from her search and went unexpectedly to the Tredgold College. She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. Nothing, in short, portable or valuable was left. In some incomprehensible way that back view made her feel sorry for Alice.
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