"Well, you women are forgiving creatures, I must say," observed Jonathan, sarcastically. The room they were in was a sort of closet, with the door locked outside; but this was only a moment's obstacle to Jack, who with a chisel forced back the bolt. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. If I'd been in the way, instead of Jonathan Wild, that accident wouldn't have happened. She was an Egyptian, from the magical times.
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