She was practically an outcast, she had not even the ghost of a plan as to her future, and she had something less than five pounds in her pocket. “Cheveney!” she repeated. Her sense followed the shoulders under his coat, down to where his flexible, sensitive-looking hand rested lightly upon the table. 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.
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