" "Ah," said Spurlock; "that kind of a man. 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. Sheila was a stout woman, her bosoms huge, her face 110 wide and square. “Here we are, living in the same suburb,” he began. He wore a silk hat a little tilted, and a morning coat buttoned round a tight, contained figure; and a white slip gave a finish to his costume and endorsed the quiet distinction of his tie. There were groves of cultivated guava, orange, lemon, and pomegranate. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be.
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