She drew a long breath. 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. It’s just to feel—one owns one’s self. She hoped that he would at long last remember his young male pride. She was inclined to think that perhaps for a girl the converse of his method was the case; an older man, a man beyond the range of anything “nonsensical,” was, perhaps, the most interesting sort of friend one could meet. I believe I am doomed to be an old maid. “You haven’t come here to make a lot of difficulties?” she asked. A broken laugh followed the action. But only inside, you understand, that one cannot see it. Her eyebrows, pulled down by the stress of thought, now resumed their normal arches; and pleased with her discovery, she smiled.
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