She looked, Dorothée said, just as she always looks. . When Jack came to speak of Jonathan Wild, his countenance fell. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. She peered into the darkness. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. “Stay where you are for a moment,” she directed. It seemed to her in her restored geniality that she liked Manning extremely.
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