He came along, he said, just to call, with large, loud apologies, radiantly kind and good. CHAPTER XXX. Somehow I haven’t connected the idea with you. 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. In doing so, he had to clamber up the immense heap of bricks and rubbish which now littered the floor, amounting almost to a car-load, and reaching up nearly to the top of the chimney-piece. I've bumped into so much of the underside that I can't see clean any more.
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