‘But she will not shoot you,’ Melusine told him flatly. 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. Ann Veronica ignored her friend’s confusion. During this colloquy, Jack had contrived unobserved to put on the hood and cloak, and being about the size of the rightful owner, presented a very tolerable resemblance to her. I couldn’t help the thought.
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