As Jack was removed, he noticed Jonathan Wild at a little distance from him, eyeing him with a look of the most savage satisfaction. His destination was the New Mint. He had hired not one but two engineers to record the event, subsidized entirely out of his own meager pocket. At sunset the swarming abruptly ceased; even the sampans appeared to draw closer together, with the quiet of water-fowl. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love.
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