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. And here against a wall were the plumtrees. Every now and then something familiar in her tone, the poise of her head, the play of her eyes startled him. ‘I can see why you lost your place, young Kimble. "What proof have you of the truth of this story?" inquired Trenchard. The elusive Jane tapped her on the shoulder after class.
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