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But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. I get your side all right. He sounds to me like a soldier of fortune. 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. I am your husband, though as yet your hand has scarcely lain in mine. But—It’s just this: who was to be hurt?” “I wish no one had to be hurt,” said Ann Veronica.
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