Never for a moment had violence come between these two since long ago he had, in spite of her mother’s protest in the background, carried her kicking and squalling to the nursery for some forgotten crime. She leaned forward in her chair, as if petrified in fear by the scary story. All at once she realised that Kimble had halted, leaning heavily against the wall. We men are like children. 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.
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