She fell with a plop onto her rear end in the mud and sat dumbly like a statue, water eddying around her. 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. Miss Ellicot pursed her lips and sat a little more upright. Sheppard. Now that I recall, it probably wasn’t the best source for engineering plans. Can’t travel alone, a pair of nuns.
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