” He smiled bitterly as he handed her from the cab. "If that sickly brat lives to be a man," continued Jonathan, rising, "I'll hang him upon the same tree as his father. My name is Wild— Jonathan Wild. Take my advice. If you knew anything about Canton ware, you were, as like as not, sorely tempted to stuff a teacup into your pocket. She made a curious movement toward her niece, then suddenly, convulsively, she dabbed down something lumpy on the table and turned to follow her brother. Furiously, she dashed his hands away. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. You’re splendid stuff, you know, but you’ve got nothing ready to sell.
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