. . The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. She had been married four times: three of her husbands died of hempen fevers; and the fourth, having been twice condemned, was saved from the noose by Jonathan Wild, who not only managed to bring him off, but to obtain for him the situation of under-turnkey in Newgate. Epithalamy might do. She stepped into his arms. Then she would have quiet times, in which she would say to herself, “Now look here! Let me think it all out!” For the first time, it seemed to her, she faced the facts of a woman’s position in the world—the meagre realities of such freedom as it permitted her, the almost unavoidable obligation to some individual man under which she must labor for even a foothold in the world. You had better let me go again. If I offered you half of my possessions, you'd doubtless wallop me on the jaw. I tell you this child would have been strangled.
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