I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. And opposite to him, with a book in his hand,—but it couldn't be a prayer-book,—sat Jonathan Wild, in a parson's cassock and band. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. Wiped out, but for these. She broke a cobblestone over his head and he was out.
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