ToC Scarcely an hour after the horrible occurrence just related, as Jonathan Wild was seated in the audience-chamber of his residence at the Old Bailey, occupied, like Peachum, (for whose portrait he sat,) with his account-books and registers, he was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Quilt Arnold, who announced Jack Sheppard and Blueskin. Her eye wandered quickly over that riotous and disorderly assemblage, until it settled upon one group more riotous and disorderly than the rest, of which her son formed the principal figure. "Do not—do not!" "He must!" thundered Jonathan, "or he goes to jail. Those whom he retained about his person, or placed in offices of trust, were for the most part convicted felons, who, having returned from transportation before their term had expired, constituted, in his opinion, the safest agents, inasmuch as they could neither be legal evidences against him, nor withhold any portion of the spoil of which he chose to deprive them. " "Blessings upon him!" cried Lady Trafford, fervently. She was the social leader of Morningside Park, and in her superficial and euphuistic way an extremely kind and pleasant woman. And there was another matter. Shotbolt, the head turnkey of Clerkenwell Prison, and Mr. God help me. He had done this a dozen times on the way from his office.
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