Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. "My name is Darrell," said the fugitive hastily. 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. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. The release was so great that she felt tears spring from her eyes.
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