Jonathan Wild's House in the Old Bailey XVII. "They shall not harm you, my love!" she exclaimed. ‘Truth is, it’s Gerald who’s put me in the devil’s own temper, ma’am. Who is she, I say?” “My sister!” Annabel faltered. For nothing will ever convince me that it is not the man’s share in life to shield, to protect, to lead and toil and watch and battle with the world at large. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. It means social isolation—struggle.
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