He took into his soul some of the father's misery, some of the daughter's, to mingle with his own. Jonathan Wild must have stolen it from her. She wished he could smoke and dull his nerves a little. 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. Here and there, a rectangular patch, darker than the rest, showed that some had been removed.
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