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 don't want her hurt. Then fury claimed her and she could no longer pretend. One glance swept across the place and it was immediately apparent that Pottiswick had not, this time, been mistaken. He did not think of her as a killer, he could barely conceive it. This isn’t the place. Then, I thought, she has repented, all will be well.
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