"It is the fiend!" she exclaimed, recoiling. For the face under her gaze she could find but one expression—fine. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. She did not open the Bible but laid it on the edge of the bed, knelt and rested her forehead upon the worn leather cover. “And I have dragged you all over here for nothing,” she murmured. ‘Melusine…Melusine. "Coming!—so is midnight—so is Jonathan Wild," retorted Jack, with a significant look at Thames.
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