Just as he was about to drain it, he encountered the basilisk glance of Jonathan Wild, and paused. Here was a poor half-naked creature, with a straw crown on his head, and a wooden sceptre in his hand, seated on the ground with all the dignity of a monarch on his throne. All the king's horses and all the king's men could not undo what was done; nor kill the strange exquisite flower that had grown up in his own lonely heart. “The Widgetts,” she said.
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