Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. Prom a knot of idlers at a public-house, he learnt that Jonathan Wild had just ridden past, and that his setters were scouring the country in every direction. “I think everything’s right,” said Ann Veronica, with the roaming eye of a capable but not devoted house-mistress. One or two of the tables were occupied by groups of fat frowzy women in flat caps, with rings on their thumbs, and baskets by their sides; and no one who had listened for a single moment to their coarse language and violent abuse of each other, would require to be told they were fish-wives from Billingsgate.
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