“I should love to come. For she needed him. My name is Wild— Jonathan Wild. Not like my father. Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person. Destruction everywhere marked its course. She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. Only you good ones— shirk.
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