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. See? Nothing really. Ennison himself, with the recollection of Annabel’s visit still fresh in his mind, was for a moment constrained and ill at ease. Anna, quitting her chair, dropped on her knees by her sister’s side and took her hand. Jonathan kept his keen eye fixed upon him, as he addressed himself for a moment to the Hollander. He held her hand in his, cupped together like a pair of shells for the rest of the hour.
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