\" She handed the ticket seller, a boy that looked to be all of eighteen years old, murder money that she had stolen from Dawn Plote's dead son, five dollars. The very blank, however, affected him more deeply than if it had been left. The poor old imbecile! Why, this child was a firebrand, a wrecker, if ever he had seen one; and the worst kind because she was unconscious of her gifts. The cause of this uproar was soon manifest. “She will take her risk,” she answered. But his grief was of short duration. " "Jonathan Wild!" repeated the carpenter, trembling. Wood, "it may be poisoned.
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