‘My name’s NOT More, Mr. " Figg turned aside to hide the tears that started to his eyes,—for the stout prizefighter, with a man's courage, had a woman's heart,—and the procession again set forward. The pistol was lowered slightly. Tears sprang to her eyes. 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. Either ignorant of the accident, or heedless of it, the foremost horseman pursued his way without even turning his head. The calvacade was now put slowly in motion.
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