‘Gérard, you are a great fool. ‘A thing Marthe told me of,’ Melusine answered, her attention on the garments that were still lying higgledy-piggledy, just as she had left them. 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. Run away now, please. “Unless you have an appointment, which you haven’t,” he said, “you’ll only waste your time here.
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