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. Once she reached the bamboo curtain, clutched at it and tore it down as his arms went around her waist. “You are so sweet, Lucy. The tears were welling over now, but her voice was steady. Don’t be afraid that I shall stunt it. I told him instantly and shamelessly that the play was going to be worth ten thousand pounds. She was a trained being—trained by an implacable mother to one end.
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