"Done!" cried Shotbolt. Just as he was about to drain it, he encountered the basilisk glance of Jonathan Wild, and paused. ‘I should not dream of forcing my attentions on you. A bowl of roses, just brought by Ann Veronica, adorned the communal dressing-table, and Ann Veronica was particularly trim in preparation for a call she was to make with her aunt later in the afternoon. "Ah!" he exclaimed, as the painting was turned towards him. " "I should like to satisfy myself on that score," rejoined Wild, drily.
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