“Why not? It might amuse me. But if I escape, my gratitude—" "Pshaw!" interrupted Jonathan, scornfully. 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 obeyed, extending her arm. Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. Lucy propped Michelle against a thick, knobby tree stump.
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