She clenched her hands together and leaned forward in her chair, gazing steadily into the fire. 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. “But was it wise to sing to-night?” “Why not? The man was nothing to me. The completest capitulation would not wipe out that trouble. “I cannot but conclude,” he said, “that your errand involved the recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself.
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