On that night, I surrendered myself to Jonathan Wild, and became— what I am. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. “Ass!” he went on, still warming. Marvel held her handkerchief to her eyes, and appeared in great distress. ‘Never mind where. This is clear over my head. ‘You damned little fool! How dared you steal my sword?’ Her eyes flew open. "Put up your blade, Sir Rowland," rejoined Jonathan, resuming his former calm demeanour, "King James the Third will need it. Marry me. On all hands Jack was cheered, and Jonathan hooted. He turned the wheel carefully as he touched her neck with the other, threading her soft curls in between his slim fingers. I felt—I felt living in a masked world.
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