Kneebone's cheeks glowed with rage, and he set down the wine untasted, while Blueskin resumed his song. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. Jonathan Wild brought him off. This employment seemed to afford him the highest satisfaction; for a diabolical grin—it cannot be called a smile—played upon his face all the time he was engaged in it.
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