From the opposite corner under the trees a man with his hat slouched over his eyes stood and glowered at them. "Insult you! not I;" returned Figg. 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 struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. "I was not aware it was in danger," rejoined Darrell. " A moment afterwards, they quitted the house. Her cheeks were the colour of chalk, her eyes were filled with terror. But he tells them that I am a spy.
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