Ruth could not very well object, since an air of distinction would go with Taber. “No, he wouldn’t come here of all places—just now. 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. Directly in range stood the strange young man, although he was at the far side of the loft. Who is it?” The man came a little further into the room. Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. Every movable mirror had been placed here, to discourage vanity, and since no whitewash covered the brocaded purple wallpaper, its pervasive hue gave an added sense of heaviness to the crowded chamber.
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