The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. He sat down on the sill of the open window, folded his arms, and stared straight before him for a long time over the wilderness of tiles and chimney-pots into a sky that was blue and empty. The packets were hastily broken open; and, while Wood was absorbed in the perusal of the despatch addressed to him by Sir Rowland, Thames sought out, and found the letter which he had been prevented from finishing on the fatal night at Jonathan Wild's. In the hall below she could hear his firm voice giving quick commands to the servants. By rights I ought to have arrested her days ago. He knew that tragedy was as blind as justice, that it struck the child and the grown-up impartially. The buboes broke and God took Lucia's mother.
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