‘I don’t want a list of all the nuns resident in your wretched convent. That’s my point. ” She said. D. “Why?” he asked, suavely. The sun shined weakly through brief pinpricks 90 in the thick cloud cover, the weather was brewing a storm. And opposite to him, with a book in his hand,—but it couldn't be a prayer-book,—sat Jonathan Wild, in a parson's cassock and band. Perhaps at the first blush—it strikes you as odd. These daughters! He gnawed his pen and reflected, tore the sheet up, and began again. No, never mind about thanking me. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring.
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