If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. Fortescue had not much ability to keep her sister, and a little while after her mother’s death Ann Veronica met Gwen suddenly on the staircase coming from her father’s study, shockingly dingy in dusty mourning and tearful and resentful, and after that Gwen receded from the Morningside Park world, and not even the begging letters and distressful communications that her father and aunt received, but only a vague intimation of dreadfulness, a leakage of incidental comment, flashes of paternal anger at “that blackguard,” came to Ann Veronica’s ears. Even that he was an interfering person, if he walked through that door this moment, she would fling herself at him and weep all over his chest. However this may be, such was the ill report of the place that few passed along the Old Bailey without bestowing a glance of fearful curiosity at its dingy walls, and wondering what was going on inside them; while fewer still, of those who paused at the door, read, without some internal trepidation, the formidable name—inscribed in large letters on its bright brass-plate—of JONATHAN WILD. There was no past, no future, only this exhilarating present. “Number 13, please, cabman. Melusine jumped up, turning swiftly. I thought Bess would have cried her pretty eyes out when she heard you was nabbed.
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