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. He would talk to Spurlock, but from the bench; as a judge, not as a chagrined lover. That is what my mother used to call me. When he returned, it was always the same. She rang again with the same result. He was like a man beside himself. As the secret door opened, the sounds within the house came at once to her ears: the tramping of feet above, and the hoarse voices echoing through the mansion.
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