He had a blue overstuffed couch, his own television, even a computer with its own desk. 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. ‘Lord, no! I’ve a better regard for my skin, I thank you. “You have not seen your sister lately,” he remarked. You see, I’m selfish. I swear to you, solemnly swear to you, I will save your son's life, nay more, will befriend him, will place him out of the reach of his enemies, if you consent to become my wife.
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