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E. ‘I can’t help but be sure,’ he returned shortly. “I want to know who you are. You will be—my wife. 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. Every man in her life had betrayed her one way or another. There was an eerie sense of brooding menace about an uninhabited establishment. Other phrases returned now, like echoes. But it would be too risky. ‘Do not beg my pardon.
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