"Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. Glancing idly up at her own window as they had swung round the corner she had seen a strange thing. ’ She looked up again and smiled sweetly. He was helpful, but gravely dubious. 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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