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. That Capes should love her seemed beyond the compass of her imagination. She was glad to join in the stream of hurrying homeward workers that was now welling out of a thousand places of employment, and to imitate their driven, preoccupied haste. Gianfrancesco never suspected that I had my own reasons for wanting you for my wife. Buck up. She felt the warm nearness of his. She yielded it without protest, as though unconsciously.
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