“Well,” she said, “good-night, father. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. ” She spoke like a mistress addressing school-children. The only circumstance which served to awaken a darker feeling in his breast was, that his implacable foe Jonathan Wild had survived the wound inflicted by Blueskin, and was slowly recovering. So I dare say I was christened Jack. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed.
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