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The chapel was again crowded with visitors, and every eye—even that of Jonathan Wild who had come thither to deride him,—was fixed upon him. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. Perhaps these few words were the first real conscious words he had uttered in days. Strongly impregnated with the mingled odours of tobacco, ale, brandy, and other liquors, the atmosphere was almost stifling.
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