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. Yes, very well. The delight of the turnkeys was beyond all bounds; but poor Mrs. "Oh God! she is dying," exclaimed Jack in a voice suffocated by emotion. Meantime the spinsters sought the dining room where tea was being served. She shuddered; the room was unfamiliar and unwelcoming.
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