She could learn nothing of her son, and only obtained one solitary piece of information, which added to, rather than alleviated her misery,—namely, that Jonathan Wild had paid a secret visit to the Cross Shovels. But she was only able to save a corner of the letter. “After all,” he said, “I am not sure that you are not a very material person. “And aren’t there fees to pay at the Imperial College?” her aunt was saying—a disagreeable question. If there’s any one here whom you have not met I will make you acquainted with them after dinner. Then she shrugged. One little minute with soap and water, voilà tout. Everything seemed designed to unhinge the mind and make the cat wretched. He turned, expecting to see his wife. For all her begging she had been given the choice to go into the nunnery and “learn how to read scrolls with the rest of God’s Spinsters” by her father, but had quickly lost interest when presented with the idea of bearing babies.
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