Besides, I'm afraid her simple honesty will spoil any invented yarn. Tell her, that more than once, when about to commit some desperate offence, I have been restrained by her gentle image. 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 I have two hundred thousand pounds. Madame Valade was that kind of woman. But one day he came to me. To receive him here afterwards would be most repugnant to me.
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