” “This,” Anna declared, as she sipped her wine and looked around her, “reminds me more of Paris than any place I have yet seen. ‘She’s wearing a lightskirt’s clothing?’ ‘Nothing obviously so, I assure you. Certain simple purposes emerged from the disingenuous muddle of her feelings and desires. 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. “It is unimportant,” she said.
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