She put back her hood in a determined way. The books slid from her arms and fluttered to the floor. "My portrait!" echoed Jack. 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. A slight cough uttered by Jonathan at the moment awakened the echoes of the place, and was returned in hollow reverberations. E. Annabel, I cannot believe it. Then, I thought, she has repented, all will be well. Jonathan, however, still lingered.
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