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. Did he see him, this Monsieur Charvill?’ ‘I don’t rightly know, miss,’ confessed Kimble. “The young lady, I presume, told you that her name was Anna,” he remarked. The other was helping Trodger with his operation upstairs. He thought, too, of the fretful invalid who lay in the next room to his, whose money had created his business and made his position in the world. The expression was wholly different.
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