He turned to Ruth and McClintock. Then he was to arrest you and bring you home to me. He could neither stifle nor deaden that. 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. His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged. The girl was flushed with excitement, bright-eyed, and braced for a struggle; her aunt had never seen her looking so fine or so pretty. In his condition the boy apparently had been as safe as in the lock-up. It was possible that his first impressions had not been correct. "You want me, then?" she said. She could not part with dignity.
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