” “Then why,” Anna asked quietly, “do you run away? It is not like you. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. ’ ‘What? But—’ ‘Precisely, Hilary. Love lives on a higher plane. 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. Some years after the date of this history, an immense ventilator was placed at the top of the Gate, with the view of purifying the prison, which, owing to its insufficient space and constantly-crowded state, was never free from that dreadful and contagious disorder, now happily unknown, the jail-fever.
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