He had not addressed to her even the most ordinary courtesy of fellow travellers; she doubted that he was even aware of her existence. 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. This year—I’ve got it badly. She got out of bed, her eyes still half-closed, and stood slack jawed. CHAPTER VIII.
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