” John’s father, Thomas, strode into the front hall at that moment in his golf clothes. I saw her face and it was the face that had been hidden from me in dreams, a face very much like yours, Lucia. But, alas! she was beautiful—and beauty is a crime not to be forgiven by a jealous woman. 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. She turned a resolute face southward. “Read this, John.
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