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. The fireplace was at the other end, with the sheeted shapes of two sofas either side. Diving towards it, he tried to press against the rivulet that was seeping from it, hampered mightily by Melusine’s fingers, which were grasping at his other hand. After what seemed like an eternity he turned right onto a dirt road that ended unceremoniously at a copse of leafless trees. When night fell, he crept into the town of Tottenham. .
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