" So saying, he violently shut and locked the door. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. The only circumstance which served to awaken a darker feeling in his breast was, that his implacable foe Jonathan Wild had survived the wound inflicted by Blueskin, and was slowly recovering. At any rate, it would be good to hear him saying the sort of things he did—perhaps now she would grasp them better—with this world-shaking secret brandishing itself about inside her head within a yard of him. He—he has rather a poor opinion of his contemporaries. The lamp was spreading soot over everything and the reek of kerosene was stronger than usual.
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