Dare we look back upon the darkened vista, and, in imagination retrace the path we have trod? With how many vain hopes is it shaded! with how many good resolutions, never fulfilled, is it paved! Where are the dreams of ambition in which, twelve years ago, we indulged? Where are the aspirations that fired us—the passions that consumed us then? Has our success in life been commensurate with our own desires—with the anticipations formed of us by others? Or, are we not blighted in heart, as in ambition? Has not the loved one been estranged by doubt, or snatched from us by the cold hand of death? Is not the goal, towards which we pressed, further off than ever—the prospect before us cheerless as the blank behind?—Enough of this. For a time she could scarcely believe he was gone. —Jonathan Wild: August 31st, 1724. Leaving the library by the same door she had first used to enter it earlier that day, she crossed the two little antechambers and moved on through the rooms. Perhaps you will meet him someday. She had already killed more than she wanted to count, yet she had counted them still. With a little more meat on him, he would be handsome. Anna looked at her curiously, and with sinking heart. ‘No, my poor guardian,’ Gerald mocked. She was rash and ignorant, absolutely inexperienced.
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