"My mother!—my poor mother!" ejaculated Thames, falling on his knees, and bursting into tears. 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. But when it came to broaching them, it proved to be much more difficult than she had supposed. Here we are absconding, pretending to be what we are not; shady, to say the least of it. And yet it was basically a fine action. Now I do. Besides, I'm afraid her simple honesty will spoil any invented yarn.
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