Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. 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. ‘Poor Gerald has been very busy about your affairs this last week. “I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. "But, perhaps, he has not got beyond the room above. "My coat!" he repeated, his glance burning into hers.
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