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. His face changed and she saw, with a stab at her heart, the dawning of irritation in his eyes. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. She had changed into dungarees herself and kept her hair as it was. Sheppard, smiling through her tears. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait.
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