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. It isn't as if he were stricken with typhoid or pneumonia or something like that. Drawing a pistol, and unclosing his lantern with the quickness of thought, he then burst through an open trap-door into a small loft. That’s my opinion, if you ask me. Mama will be expecting me. “I hope that you are going to allow me to see something of you during your stay in London, for the sake of old times. ’ ‘As we see.
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