“We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. \" She waved. She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. The funeral procession had now approached the grave, around which many of the congregation, who were deeply interested by the sad ceremonial, had gathered. "He hash eshcaped!" cried the Jew. 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.
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