"I began to fear, from his having quitted the old place, that some misfortune must have befallen him. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. 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. Nothing to check their proceedings but a declining habit of telling the truth and the limitations of their imaginations. He had something across his knees.
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