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The Well Hole 336 XIII. This person—this Jonathan Wild, whom I beheld for the first time, scarcely an hour ago, in Wych Street, is—I know not why—my enemy. I walked London till the soles of my shoes were worn through, and my toes were blistered. The mode of destruction makes no difference. At this juncture, Sir Cecil and his followers appeared at the threshold. We shall have—hardly any money. He could not move; but stood like one stupified, with his hands clasped together, and eyes almost starting out of their sockets, fixed upon his unfortunate parent. “Quite different. And neither had any of that theatricality which demands gestures and facial expression.
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