I cannot be intimate—’ stressing the word with a deep look ‘— with one I feel to be a stranger. And when there is no longer any need to use it, why then, enough you say—and throw it away. 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. William Kneebone was a woollen-draper of "credit and renown," whose place of business was held at the sign of the Angel (for, in those days, every shop had its sign), opposite Saint Clement's church in the Strand. The Times slipped from his fingers. Quite trying of him not to be there when he is wanted. He barely shook the rose petals from her hair. There were moments when Ann Veronica rather more than suspected the chief speakers to be, as school-boys say, showing off at her. There was so much to see, so much to do, that he became what he had once been normally, a lovable boy.
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