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. But Jack and his companion were already gone. There was no disgust in Ruth's heart, only an infinite pity; for only the pitiful understand. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. Lucy had caught it when it was a millimeter away from hitting her teeth. In each corner stood a stout square post reaching to the ceiling.
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