“If one half of the stories about Meysey Hill are true,” he answered, “I would not stretch out my little finger to save his life. Left to himself, he took a survey of the room, and his heart leaped as he beheld over the, chimney-piece, a portrait of himself. He wiped the sweat from his chin and forehead. Prom a knot of idlers at a public-house, he learnt that Jonathan Wild had just ridden past, and that his setters were scouring the country in every direction.
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