Here was one of those Americans who would make him breathless before sundown. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. Cursing himself for his inertness, Jack soon shook off this drowsiness, and set to work in earnest. His spirits revived, and encouraging himself with the idea that the present impediment, though the greatest, was the last, he set himself seriously to consider how it might best be overcome. It was my destiny to have her. No more scuffling. " "Perhaps, I wasn't," returned Thames, gloomily, as the remembrance of Jonathan Wild's foul insinuation crossed him. Her name, he said, was as pretty as its wearer.
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