“It couldn’t be. 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. Look at the cock’s feathers, look at the competition there is everywhere, except among humans. That is how I learned that there were such things as novels. “And me. Even the most sullen and withdrawn were sensitive to the penetrating nastiness of the fog.
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