My name is Wild— Jonathan Wild. It's mighty lonesome down there for a man bred to cities. Wood, who had been absent on business during the greater part of the day, returned (perhaps not altogether undesignedly) at an earlier hour than was expected, to his dwelling in Wych Street, Drury Lane; and was about to enter his workshop, when, not hearing any sound of labour issue from within, he began to suspect that an apprentice, of whose habits of industry he entertained some doubt, was neglecting his employment. She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. "And yet, he has been spared thus long; perhaps with a wise purpose," rejoined Thames. “Pretend,” he said, “that all I have said hasn’t been said.
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