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The night his execution was therefore passed in a most anxious state of mind; nor was his uneasiness allayed by the appearance of Jonathan Wild, who, after he had been driven from the roof of the jail, repaired to the Middle Stone Ward in a fit of ungovernable passion, to vent his rage upon the prisoner, whom he looked upon as the cause of the present calamity. He fell back upon the pillows with a little moan, clutching the slim white fingers fiercely. This also struck her as odd. She seemed smitten with a paroxysm of fear. "Tut, tut! Don't exaggerate. He laughed to hide his uneasiness. ‘Is that a gesture of friendship?’ She stamped her foot. But it's best to be on the safe side. She was aware of the body of the court, of clerks seated at a black table littered with papers, of policemen standing about stiffly with expressions of conscious integrity, and a murmuring background of the heads and shoulders of spectators close behind her. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music.
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