I cannot go on. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. "The worst house in the neighbourhood—the constant haunt of reprobates and thieves," groaned Wood. As she started, rearing up her head, a hand stole about her mouth and closed down hard. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. Jonathan Wild must have stolen it from her.
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