I can’t imagine Londoners—particularly interested in me. Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard. “Were you ever in love, aunt?” she asked. ‘That’s right, you bone idle do-nothings. “When did you look up my mother’s records at the Joliet library, Michelle?” Lucy asked, trying not to incriminate herself by sounding confrontational. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn.
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