She had eaten them, murdered them routinely, and yet he loved her still. “I am sure, Anna,” she said, “I do not see why we should conceal the truth from you. ‘Well said, my dear. Jonathan Wild's House in the Old Bailey. But it was under false names, so I dare say it ain’t valid. "If I thought he lived——" observed Wood. Nevertheless, relief washed over her, her body rejoicing in the afterglow of twenty years of tension released.
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