A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. She was watching him intently. I have broken from prison, and am come to save you. 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. I don’t want to tear at you with hot, rough hands.
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