And Rollo, who had been waiting for some encouraging sound, presented himself at the doorway. 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. “You look more like your old self when you smile,” he remarked. I have found you. You wanted to play a lone hand. In a moment the brisk evening breeze caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut.
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