It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. Why had he offered her that kiss on board The Tigress? Perhaps that had been his hour of disenchantment. I'm about to ring for supper. "How so?" asked Wild, curiously. Wood glanced at the hardy offender, and not liking the expression of his countenance, thought it advisable to postpone the execution of his threats to a more favourable opportunity. 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.
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