At no loss to comprehend that Jack was the individual pointed out by these outcries, two of the nearest of the group made a dash at him. This person—this Jonathan Wild, whom I beheld for the first time, scarcely an hour ago, in Wych Street, is—I know not why—my enemy. If it wasn’t for the fear that after all—but we won’t think of that. I have slept with it under my pillow. Jack was almost afraid of speaking; but at length he summoned courage to call out "Mother!" "Who's there?" asked a faint voice from the bed. Always her prayers ended—'And may my beautiful mother guide me!' No.
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