A light was visible in the garret, feebly struggling through the damp atmosphere, for the night was raw and overcast. "Mercy on us!" cried he, as a thrill of apprehension ran through his frame. 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. Explain to Sir John our feelings. "Has any one been here?" he asked.
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