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. CHAPTER I. . ‘Beg your pardon, ma’am, but she’s enough to try the patience of a saint. “This is a very foolish sort of entertainment. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. . " "A child!" thought Wood; it must be the fugitive Darrell.
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