Poor Ben was not so fortunate. I should as soon think of trusting a woman. The oblique ruddy lighting distorted them oddly, made queer bars and patches of shadow upon their clothes. 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. Wood's reply, if he intended any, was cut short by a loud knocking at the door. At the recollection that it was his, she seemed to fall through a thin surface, as one might fall through the crust of a lava into glowing depths. ‘Certainly this is true,’ she managed. To his relief, she nodded. Now that she was his, to make or mar, she presented an extraordinary fascination.
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