Womanhood is sacred to me. He saw his father, calling to him from an icy white tunnel, beckoning to him. ‘On the contrary,’ Gerald argued, frowning. He would stare at her intensely when he was certain his parents were not looking in his direction. 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. Here, where every element of her surroundings was tawdry and commonplace, and before this young man of vulgar origin and appearance, it was striking.
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