Now, as she stared at the image of her own face, she recalled something Major Alderley had said. It was only a matter of time. I’m not a psycho. She had never dreamed of such decadence, never imagined that young people could be so happy and healthy. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. . Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. 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.
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