On that night, I surrendered myself to Jonathan Wild, and became— what I am. ‘Get out! Out, I say! Think I want another miserable cowardly good-for-nothing wastrel on my hands? Begone! Out of my house!’ He drove them to the door, grimly satisfied when the girl’s nerve broke. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words.
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