At no time did she feel bodily or mental fatigue. She refused coffee, though she knew that anyhow she was doomed to a sleepless night. "It's the boy's death-warrant," observed Jonathan, with a sinister smile. But perhaps you don't know; there was nothing in the pockets. The day was warm even under an overcast sky and Hilary, uncomfortable, shifted his weight. 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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