They seemed the most wrapped things in all Ann Veronica’s wrappered world. "It was given me by a man who was drinking t'other night with Blueskin at the Lion! and who, though he slouched his hat over his eyes, and muffled his chin in a handkerchief, must have been Jonathan Wild. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. However this may be, such was the ill report of the place that few passed along the Old Bailey without bestowing a glance of fearful curiosity at its dingy walls, and wondering what was going on inside them; while fewer still, of those who paused at the door, read, without some internal trepidation, the formidable name—inscribed in large letters on its bright brass-plate—of JONATHAN WILD. Ann Veronica was not aware of this literary side of her teacher; she had a little tinge of annoyance at Miss Garvice’s advantage. My father's chief fear, I must tell you, is from the baneful influence of Jonathan Wild. I intend to remain very serious indeed while I’m doing it. The other was to go into business—into a photographer’s reception-room, for example, or a costumer’s or hat-shop. Ramage did not know. She felt she had stepped into a world of unknown usages. The petals have fallen—the red petals we loved so.
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