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. Here he was hotly pursued. E. Capes flashed to an understanding of her intention, sprang to his feet, and opened the door for her retreat. That was something in his favour. Pottiswick had mentioned muttering. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters.
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