She stole the opportunity to peer at his departing figure from the closed curtains of the front room window, his shoulders slumped forward, his posture and his ego slightly deflated. “We are Mr. He well knows that but two lives—those of Thames Darrell and Sir Rowland Trenchard,—stand between you and the vast possessions of the family. It would be a great matter, I must own, to bring Jonathan Wild to justice. I don’t see how they can be. “Now,” he said, quietly, “it’s time we stopped this nonsense. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling.
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