As they careened into a parking space, Lucy clung to the upholstery so as not to be thrown against the front seats. She remained by the door until the walls of the city swallowed the bobbing lantern. 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. ‘He prayeth best who loveth best—all things both great and small. A sudden knock at the door startled her. Melusine, used to the stark surroundings of the convent at Blaye, had no complaint to make.
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