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. But the father, to go his way forever alone! The iron in the man!—the iron in this child of his! Wanting a little love, a caress now and then. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. It was not a difficult affair. It would surely be only common politeness to drop her a hint—a fellow countrywoman too. “Just do it.
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