She lied. "Ay, murder him, if you like the term," returned Wild. “I wrote it for you. My house is the next door to the Cooper's Arms, in the Old Bailey, opposite Newgate. You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap. Turning now, and running down the terrace. Not a bark could be discerned on the river, except those already mentioned. The girl regarded him with the face of a Sphinx.
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