She had traversed perhaps three bookshelves, passed across the door that must lead to the hall, turned the corner, and was just about to reach the fireplace when she abruptly became aware that something under her fingers had felt wrong. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. When Jack came to speak of Jonathan Wild, his countenance fell. “But perhaps I want to confess them. Startled by the cry, as may be supposed, the attention of the whole congregation was drawn towards the quarter whence it proceeded. A simple wooden monument was placed over the grave, but without any name or date. Little did I imagine at the time that it was my own father to whom he referred. I can’t forget about your sister.
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