She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. 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. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. One or two landladies refused her with an air of conscious virtue that she found hard to explain. "I thought you were asleep. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. Though not much passed the middle term of life, he seemed prematurely stricken with old age. ‘Very wise,’ he commented, slightly relaxing his arm. He did like her, anyhow; he was always pleased to be with her. She entered the last room, his bedroom. His glasses were gone.
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