Jonathan's vexation at the disappointment was expressed in the bitterest imprecations, and he returned as speedily as he could to the trench. . ’ ‘Pah! How can it be romantic? That is silly. She put a hand to the lad’s cold cheek and choked on a sob. The pair then descended Saffron-hill, threaded Field-lane, and, entering Holborn, passed over the little bridge which then crossed the muddy waters of Fleet-ditch, mounted Snow-hill, and soon drew in the bridle before Jonathan Wild's door. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. “Tell me,” she insisted, “why you look like that. “I told you I did not love you. I have always managed to survive, haven’t I?” She was eager to stop talking about her parents. She was obliged, as she explained continually to every one who cared to listen, to be so very particular. His anger gave way to grim humour and he thrust towards them, leaning heavily on his cane. ” He paused, and went on, after a keen look at her: “I had rather gossip to a really intelligent girl than to any man alive. ‘That—that—why do you speak of him?’ ‘Because I feel you ought to know,’ Gerald said calmly, but rising and watching her closely, ‘that all your trouble may be in vain.
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