“You did your best to kill me,” he said. She explained she was expecting an important interview, and asked that her visitor should be duly shown in. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. 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 interrupted. His father and his four brothers had perished, leaving him to collect all of their spoils and various kingdoms.
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