Things happen out this way. 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. “Yes,” he said, “I want to get away. ‘And I’ll say it as often as I choose, you confounded impertinent wench! Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m your grandfather, girl. He had spoken impressively, and most likely Anna, had she reappeared, would have met with a fair reception.
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