“What I am after is that beauty isn’t a special inserted sort of thing; that’s my idea. “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging. This person, whose age might be about forty, was attired in a brown double-breasted frieze coat, with very wide skirts, and a very narrow collar; a light drugget waistcoat, with pockets reaching to the knees; black plush breeches; grey worsted hose; and shoes with round toes, wooden heels, and high quarters, fastened by small silver buckles. The crowning aspect of the incident, for her mind, was the discovery that he and her indiscretion with him no longer mattered very much. 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. Each time also we quarrel, and even if you are laughing very much, you become angry. Wood brought up. ‘Come along.
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