It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. I wonder what men would say if we threw the mask aside—if we really told them what WE thought of them, really showed them what WE were. 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. No matter. A door slammed. You're rich. She had made her first fight for dignity and freedom as a grown-up and independent Person, and this was how the universe had treated her. I saw her face and it was the face that had been hidden from me in dreams, a face very much like yours, Lucia. Are you now satisfied?" "No," interposed Wood, furiously, "I shall never be satisfied till I see you hanged on the highest gibbet at Tyburn.
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