A gust of irrational impatience blew through her being. A dozen words, and he saw Enschede as clearly as though he stood hard by in the flesh. "Tell him that I—his adopted son, Thames Darrell— am detained here by Jonathan Wild. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. I don’t think of you as a kid. “But how can you?” asked Constance. "I told you I was not unprotected.
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