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. But Melusine had overcome the weakness, calling the loss but a temporary setback. The hurricane had now reached its climax. Afterward he stole out of the room with the bloodstained sheet to boast her virginity to his brothers and father, which only truly mattered because she was beautiful, her mother had said.
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