” “You have no right at all,” she answered coldly. She had turned round sideways, so as to look down into the fire. He hugged her when he saw her in the hallway. He stamped his last letter as Annabel entered. “What’s wrong with having witchcraft books? Is she afraid that the Princeton Hill villagers will burn you at stake?” Lucy asked sarcastically. 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.
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