‘The general himself?’ ‘How shall I get my inheritance if the general will believe that pig?’ ‘Do wish you wouldn’t keep on calling him a pig,’ Martha begged. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. She thought of the smiles she would gather when she brought forth his first grandson. Sweet sixteen year old Shari, who never once figured out the morning sleep hangovers she suffered monthly. It would be a great matter, I must own, to bring Jonathan Wild to justice. Ownership seemed only a reasonable return for the cares and expenses of a daughter’s upbringing.
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