This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard. His arm fell to his side. Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand. 175 “Before you tell me the whole story,” she emphasized the penultimate word, “just let me do something for you. Very soon she would be able to forget it. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat.
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