" "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. “That’s it,” she said. He found his youngest daughter intrusive in his thoughts all through the morning, and still more so in the afternoon. "Tell him that I—his adopted son, Thames Darrell— am detained here by Jonathan Wild. Her aunt went off at a tangent. Perhaps you’ve heard—?’ Well, you know, he had. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. There's good stuff in him, if one could find the way to dig it out. It was as if her aesthetic sense had become inflamed. Thames returned no answer.
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