CHAPTER III. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. Mr. " "'Sblood!" exclaimed Wild, uneasily. Blood, they say, won't come out. A momentary petrifaction, and terror had lent wings to her feet. She was an indignant queen, no doubt she was alarmed and disgusted within limits; but she was highly excited, and there was something, some low adventurous strain in her being, some element, subtle at least if base, going about the rioting ways and crowded insurgent meeting-places of her mind declaring that the whole affair was after all—they are the only words that express it—a very great lark indeed. Mr. Will you find your destiny, I wonder, or will you go through life like so many others—a wanderer, knocking ever at empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one could but find the way to your heart. Jonathan Wild must have stolen it from her. ” She spat in his face. It means so much from one as 179 beautiful as you. In other respects, they were equally indecorous and offensive. I want to know—just as much as I can. " "Ah! Sometimes I wonder I don't run amok and kill someone," said the Wastrel, in broken English.
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