And opposite to him, with a book in his hand,—but it couldn't be a prayer-book,—sat Jonathan Wild, in a parson's cassock and band. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it. I don’t idealize you. Rather a magniloquent term, perhaps, but what else am I to say? One of these is that the most absolutely selfish thing in the world is to give way to depression, to think of one’s troubles at all except of how to overcome them. All that I regret are the wasted years, and I am not sure that I regret them. The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. What he needed was not a food but a flavour; and the cocoanut taste of the chestnuts soothed his burning tongue and throat. Consent to become my wife, and do not compel me to have recourse to violence to effect my purpose, and I will spare your son. “There is no—Good God!” he exclaimed.
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