” He turned to the waiter, who held a wine-card. 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. Nor, he would wager, had the heroic Monsieur Valade, who had rescued her from that life and brought her to England, taught her in that short time all that Gerald was certain she knew of men. I feel like a fraudulent trustee. Now the sense of beauty was spreading to a multitude of hitherto unsuspected aspects of the world about her.
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