" "Leave you!" echoed the ruffian, with a contemptuous laugh; "—not just yet. Perhaps her granddaughter might marry his grandson. ‘Prudence? This name I have heard it spoken. And shall their wretched offspring live to blight my hopes, and blast my fame? Never!" And, with these words, he grasped Wood by the throat, and, despite his resistance, dragged him to the very verge of the platform. 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. I know why. She glanced at the Frenchman, and found him struggling with the portrait that was embedded around his scalp. Luckily I’m not. The back of the house had been the Alps for climbing, and the shrubs in front of it a Terai.
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