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. ’ Kimble’s widening gaze told its own tale, but still he kept his fingers on the handle of the door. Just as he was preparing to follow, the wherry containing Rowland and his men, which had drifted in their wake, was dashed against his boat. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. "Till then, I shall remain content," returned Wild. White assented. "There's an old proverb," continued Wood, rising and walking towards the fire, "which says,—'Put another man's child in your bosom, and he'll creep out at your elbow. That’s one thing clear. "And, now,—to Newgate. He got up. I'll remember that. It had a tiny flaw, most bizarre.
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