"Drink this," cried Jonathan, handing her the cup. She makes me feel terribly old-fashioned. Wood became sensible that he was not alone. "God in Heaven!" he cried, "the floor is covered with blood. CHAPTER XXVI. 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. “Dear friend,” she said, “do you not think that you are breaking an unspoken compact? I am very sorry. In a little while—to-morrow—all these tender, beautiful emotions will pass away, and I'll become what I was yesterday, a cynical, miserly old spinster.
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