This last operation was so fatiguing, that for a short time he was obliged to pause to recover the use of his fingers. “But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself. . ’ He strode to the fireplace behind the leather-topped desk and addressed his own reflection in the mirror, wagging an admonitory finger in his own face. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. Of this boy she had only caught a glimpse;—but that glimpse was sufficient to satisfy her it was her son,—and, if she could have questioned her own instinctive love, she could not question her antipathy, when she beheld, partly concealed by a pillar immediately in the rear of the woollen-draper, the dark figure and truculent features of Jonathan Wild. We girls, my sister and I, were left quite alone when our father died, and I made up my mind to make some little place in the world for myself. Her relationship with John had made her the object of desire for scores of teenage boys who had dared not previously think of her in such a way.
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