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. The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. “I don’t see,” gasped Ann Veronica, “why parents and children. Soldiers were stationed at different points of the street to keep off the mob, and others were riding backwards and forwards to maintain an open space for the passage of the procession. Was anything missed after the lad's departure, Sir Rowland?" "Not that I'm aware of," said the knight.
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