Do you know, Annabel, that you are my wife. She could learn nothing of her son, and only obtained one solitary piece of information, which added to, rather than alleviated her misery,—namely, that Jonathan Wild had paid a secret visit to the Cross Shovels. Or had you not noticed?’ He sneered. She read on and on, now thrilled by the swiftly moving drama, now enraptured by the tender passages of love. But if he speaks—I fear what he may tell. I mean I’m not a good specimen of a woman. You do not need my compliments. My husband, he is cruel and wicked, and—and entirely undistinguished. His hand went to his pocket and extracted a neat silver-mounted pistol. She had never been so happy to vomit. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said. “What of her? Have you quarrelled with her?” The girl shook her head.
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