“Who took care of you after she died?” “My father. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four. A time may come when this little chap will need my aid, and, depend upon it, he shall never want a friend in Owen Wood. “I hope,” said Miss Stanley, with dignity, and turned doorward with features in civil warfare. "As soon as we've conveyed you to Newgate, I'll accompany him. "Don't touch me. I don’t know that I understand altogether. 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. That is why I am here.
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