Spurlock. Melusine’s eyes shifted. ‘Very. ‘You have a knack of saying just the wrong thing. Kneebone, on his return from Manchester. 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. The door crashed back against the wall inside and both men hurtled into the room, weapons at the ready—and stopped dead. ‘Well! I hadn’t no notion as he’d got hisself married again.
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