” He scarcely saw her face again. Her fingers closed upon it instinctively. But at this point he was still subservient, still outwardly humble, in spite of the blackhearted villainy that was even then burgeoning in his breast. " And he hastily related the occurrences in Jonathan Wild's house. Spurlock lay with his head on his arms, asleep. There was, it might be said, a double illumination. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. Your purpose is done. You'd not know what to do without me, and shan't drive me off.
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