Jonathan stepped behind a curtain. She tried not to blush. Wood obeyed. This person—this Jonathan Wild, whom I beheld for the first time, scarcely an hour ago, in Wych Street, is—I know not why—my enemy. Later in the evening she heard him whistling, poor man! She felt very restless and excited. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. "Right to a farthing. “My dear friend,” she laughed, “not so tragic, if you please.
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