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F. I—well, I lost my temper. You're rich. Little more’n a week. Nature is God, Anna, and the greatest artist of us all a pigmy. At the first glance, he imagined he must have stumbled upon a museum of rarities, there were so many glass-cases, so many open cabinets, ranged against the walls; but the next convinced him that if Jonathan was a virtuoso, his tastes did not run in the ordinary channels. He patted the hand on his sleeve. A wrathful God was watching him. His bodily suffering, however, was nothing compared with his mental anguish. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark.
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