"This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. The expression, however, which would chiefly have interested a beholder, was that of settled and profound melancholy. Wood fancied he recognised. "If you have contrived to break out of your confinement, villain, this is the last place where you ought to show yourself. But, though I cannot reward you, Heaven will. She was never able to trace the changes her attitude had undergone, from the time when she believed herself to be the pampered Queen of Fortune, the crown of a good man’s love (and secretly, but nobly, worshipping some one else), to the time when she realized she was in fact just a mannequin for her lover’s imagination, and that he cared no more for the realities of her being, for the things she felt and desired, for the passions and dreams that might move her, than a child cares for the sawdust in its doll. On that night, I surrendered myself to Jonathan Wild, and became— what I am.
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