My garden-close would be a better thing than that. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. ’ ‘Probably not. “Oh yes,” said Miss Klegg; “I thought every one knew. 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. Hurt beyond what he could imagine by the selfishness and pride of her forbears, whose fateful disputes had robbed her of the life she should have led, the plucky little devil had taken matters into her own hands.
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