" "Jonathan Wild!" repeated the carpenter, trembling. Quite ordinary. I saw him last night at Jonathan Wild's, after my escape from the New Prison. It is a serious accusation. Habits and tastes are no longer the same. On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. Here I am.
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