“It’s still a marvel to me that we are to be forgiven,” she said, turning. Just. didn’t have to. There lay upon this stand a book bound in limp black leather—the Holy Bible. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. The packets were hastily broken open; and, while Wood was absorbed in the perusal of the despatch addressed to him by Sir Rowland, Thames sought out, and found the letter which he had been prevented from finishing on the fatal night at Jonathan Wild's.
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