Lucy looked at the stains on the threadbare carpeting to distract herself, embarrassed to her core. She had been married four times: three of her husbands died of hempen fevers; and the fourth, having been twice condemned, was saved from the noose by Jonathan Wild, who not only managed to bring him off, but to obtain for him the situation of under-turnkey in Newgate. It presented a cleanshaven face with a large Corinthian nose, hair tremendously waving off the forehead and more chin and neck than is good for a man. Blank it was, except for a gate near the bridgehead. Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark. Well-balanced, sane, wasn’t I? You never heard anyone call me a madman? I’m pretty near being one now, and it’s her fault. "Quilt!—Mendez!—Where are you?" vociferated Wild, sounding his whistle for the third time. A single glance served to show the thief-taker how matters stood. She sat herself upon the bed.
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