She took the piece of paper and unfolded it in the safety of her lap. It's fortunate we've no more Jack Sheppards, or I should stand but a poor chance. ‘Why, that’s it. If I did not love you en désespoir, I would assuredly blow off your head. Jack was not half your age when he died. Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard. He could not understand how men could live ignoring this one predominant interest, this wonderful research into personality and the possibilities of pleasing, these complex, fascinating expeditions that began in interest and mounted to the supremest, most passionate intimacy.
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