And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict. She thought of her father in the garden, and of her aunt with her Patience, as she had seen them—how many ages was it ago? Just one day intervened. Spurlock understood that his vantage would be temporary; the Wastrel had been knocked down, not out. She cut a deep gash into her own arm with a steel screw, loosing drops of her own blood onto the floorboards. 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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