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. Then a bit of colour flowed into his sunken white cheeks. Slowly Prudence Sindlesham nodded her head, her eyes never leaving his face. Gold-handled, too. She looked up, and recognized Mr. “I shall probably want you to come down to the ‘Unusual’ to-morrow morning,” he said.
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