Wood in the deepest mourning. I do not care in the least. Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. ‘He’s already spoken for, Melusine. Something seemed awry. Had he come to see her to find if she needed something? No. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. "It's runnin' a great risk. —Jonathan Wild: August 31st, 1724.
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