"Then I'll have it before to-morrow morning," said the keeper of the New Prison, to himself. But there is need for the proof that I am me, and that is what I look for. That was supposed to be Madame Valade. 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. “What is the good of pretending?” she said.
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