When Jack came to speak of Jonathan Wild, his countenance fell. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. But this accusation, for want of sufficient evidence, met with the same fate as the first, and Jonathan came off victorious. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. "Strange!" he continued, as if talking to himself. My arm's nearly well again. I've come to take you back home.
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