He had meant to be master of his fate that evening and it had escaped him altogether. And in reality even that magic garden-close resolves itself into a villa at Morningside Park and my father being more and more cross and overbearing at meals—and a general feeling of insecurity and futility. Some years ago, in 1715, just before the Rebellion, I was rash enough to league myself with the Jacobite party, and by Wild's machinations got clapped into Newgate, whence I was glad to escape with my head upon my shoulders. I'll dispose of the brat. And when, at length, it was struck, he wanted energy to pursue his advantages. It’s best. I told her it was the end.
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