She found no ready reply to that, and he went on: “This music is the food of love. On that night, I surrendered myself to Jonathan Wild, and became— what I am. You shall hear from me to-morrow. “And even then—” The conversation hung for a thoughtful moment. He saw what he had done only as it related to Ruth. Ennison kicked it away with his foot. I was mean to him. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. She was given a glimpse of his soul. You are your nephew's executioner, or he is yours.
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