For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. “Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. But you must see her alone; and that'll be no easy matter to manage, for she's a great invalid, and has generally somebody with her. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. As Jack was removed, he noticed Jonathan Wild at a little distance from him, eyeing him with a look of the most savage satisfaction. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story.
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