It just made me mad to the boiling point. She wished her father and aunt would not enjoy their dinner with such quiet determination. Surely he was imagining this picture. 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. She whipped round suddenly, and discovered the woman wedged into the corner by the window, keeping out of the way. . Two women entered and sat down at the adjoining table. "I am not, by Heaven!" replied Sheppard, firmly. It doesn't annoy me; it only disturbs me. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless.
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