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. “You will come back, won’t you?” He nodded cheerfully. We aren’t afraid; we don’t bother. I cannot be intimate—’ stressing the word with a deep look ‘— with one I feel to be a stranger. ‘Ha! Just the person I want. But I shall take care of Ruth, work for her and fight for her. He was tall, slender, and suave. She tiptoed into the entryway where some decorator had placed a live orchid upon a glassy ebony table.
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