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Gay, by his strokes of pleasantry, whether in his writings or conversation, never lost a friend. As the secret door opened, the sounds within the house came at once to her ears: the tramping of feet above, and the hoarse voices echoing through the mansion. Sometimes he was obviously irritable and uncomfortable and unfortunate in his efforts to seem at ease. And at the thought of that other lover—he was convinced that that beloved person was a lover, and she found herself unable to say a word to explain to him that this other person, the person she loved, did not even know of her love—Ramage grew angry and savage once more, and returned suddenly to gibe and insult. But she did not listen long; she wanted to talk. She would not let her move. He was consumed with desire. ‘Now then, girl. My name is Wild— Jonathan Wild. I demand it as a right.
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