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. She left for good after he fell asleep. "Give me till to-morrow," implored she, "and if I can bring myself to part with him, you shall have him without another word. Perhaps that was the reason why she enjoyed preparing suppers at the Becks. “I did it for love of you,” he said. I’ve had enough of it. We are the species, and maternity is our game; that’s all right, but nobody wants that admitted for fear we should all catch fire, and set about fulfilling the purpose of our beings without waiting for further explanations.
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