“MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. It won't do to knock at the door, and Jonathan Wild's house is not quite so easy of entrance as Mr. Lose not a moment, Hobson. It is a cheering reflection, that in the present prison, with its clean, wellwhitewashed, and well-ventilated wards, its airy courts, its infirmary, its improved regulations, and its humane and intelligent officers, many of the miseries of the old jail are removed. Cheveney was looking after her, I think, then. When you send for me I shall come back.
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