"Confusion! the rascal must have picked my pocket of your letters," whispered Kneebone, "What's to be done?" "What's to be done! Why, I'm undone! How imprudent in you not to burn them. We must always move on. His voice now had lost its ironies. Ann Veronica sat back in an attitude of inattention, her eyes on a distant game of cricket, her mind perplexed and busy. "From Jonathan Wild's confidential servant what could be expected but treachery?" With this, he proceeded to dress himself in Quilt Arnold's clothes, pulled the wig over his face and eyes so as completely to conceal his features, slouched the hat over his brows, drew the huge boots above his knees, and muffled himself up in the best way he could. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. He may not know you’re in England, but if he has the smallest knowledge of your character, he must surely be expecting you. .
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