The two aunts of these young ladies lived for many years in the dower house upon my estate in Hampshire. "Your name is Spurlock?" "It is. “The Holy Ghost! The Pope! My mother!” She squealed. After all, it was what she had been praying for—and Annabel could not have known her address. —Jonathan Wild: August 31st, 1724. She is a fortune-teller and a vessel for man’s pleasure. “Some day,” she answered. His mother smiled in return, an act that brightened her thin face. “Quite particularly nice,” said her aunt. She wasn’t sure of herself when she said it. “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging.
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