She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat. James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day. When they started getting on each other’s nerves, she blamed herself at first. Accordingly, when she arrived at the Shovels, with which, as an old haunt in her bygone days of wretchedness she was well acquainted, instead of entering the principal apartment, which she saw at a glance was crowded with company of both sexes, she turned into a small room on the left of the bar, and, as an excuse for so doing, called for something to drink. Advancing with a slow firm step to the stone-block he placed his left foot upon it, drew himself up to his full height, and fixed a look so stern upon Jonathan, that the thief-taker quailed before it. . . She wanted to stay where she was; but tears were dangerous; the more she wept, the weaker she would become defensively. Lord, what a state I was in! Night after night I sat there, I watched her come in, I watched her go. To work then he went, and with wonderful industry filed off two of the iron bars. .
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