"Stir a foot, at your peril. Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. And opposite to him, with a book in his hand,—but it couldn't be a prayer-book,—sat Jonathan Wild, in a parson's cassock and band. The carpet was a quiet drugget and not excessively worn, and the bed in the corner was covered by a white quilt. That is an evil place!” She cried. Luckily, she was bereft of consciousness, and was thus spared the additional misery of witnessing what afterwards befell him. He had grabbed her in the stream, embracing her naked body tightly, running his hands over her breasts and clutching her buttocks. Your husband could have told you that.
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