She has never done a really ignoble thing that I know of— never. Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf. 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 believe that you are right,” he said softly. The girl’s gaze met his in interested inquiry.
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