Completely overcome by fatigue, with strained muscles, and bruised hands; streaming with perspiration, and with lips so parched that he would gladly have parted with a treasure if he had possessed it for a draught of water; he sank against the wall, and while in this state was seized with, a sudden and strange alarm. "Harkye, Sir," rejoined Darrell; "one word before I move. The idiots are marching through the streets in processions from town to town, whipping their own backs until they are covered in blood, spreading the bloody Pestilence wherever they go! The dead pile in the streets like timber. Shot him, do you hear?” “Good God!” he exclaimed, looking at her curiously. "Aw, piffle!" he said, half aloud and rather disgustedly, as he stepped out into the sunshine. Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard.
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