“You can count upon me, Nigel,” she said. He drew a little breath and stepped back. As usual Brendon lit the candles, and Sydney dragged out the spiritlamp and set it going. She had recourse to the torn off strip of petticoat again, and blowing her nose with an air of determination, sniffed back the tears. So these two young philosophers got along very well that day; and the succeeding days. She felt a little ashamed of herself, a bit of a hypocrite. Horrible doubts assailed her. Jonathan Wild's House in the Old Bailey.
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