Sir Rowland, who had continued absorbed in thought, with his eyes fixed upon the sloop, as she made her way slowly down the river, disembarked more leisurely. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. ‘Never fear, my love. Wood fancied he heard the exulting laugh of Jonathan Wild. I hate myself!” She collapsed to the floor, sobbing. As to Jack Sheppard, he appeared utterly reckless and insensible, and did nothing but whistle and sing the whole way.
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