He had no wish to drag the footman out of his way, once he had got his questions answered. Her tone was hoarse with passion. Not a breath was drawn. “You’ll get me to allude to it, but you’d have to torture me to admit it. The sing-song girl, seeing Ruth, extended her hands and began to chatter rapidly. Just as he was about to drain it, he encountered the basilisk glance of Jonathan Wild, and paused. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend.
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