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. ‘A word, if you please, my friend. Jack now carefully closed the shutters, while Blueskin struck a light, with which he set fire to a candle. ‘What?’ ‘Nothing,’ snapped Roding, with an odd look at his bride to be that Gerald could not interpret.
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