“It was perhaps my fault. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking 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. Part 3 Ann Veronica’s father was a solicitor with a good deal of company business: a lean, trustworthy, worried-looking, neuralgic, clean-shaven man of fifty-three, with a hard mouth, a sharp nose, iron-gray hair, gray eyes, gold-framed glasses, and a small, circular baldness at the crown of his head. ’ His friend held it out of the way. She felt the bedsprings coil as he moved from his seated position, entranced. She turned to face him and he kissed her. But she did not speak.
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