“Fighting goes with loads of its own baggage, John. It was clear she wanted to get away from home, that she was impatient to get away from home. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. The clouds were nearly black with rain, threatening to spill sleet in daggers and torrents. While he was thus standing, the flames of his house, which made the whole street as light as day, and ruddily illumined the faces of the mob below, betrayed him to them, and he was speedily driven from his position by a shower of stones and other missiles. 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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