V. ’ The woman shrugged helpless shoulders, looking to her husband. The only circumstance which served to awaken a darker feeling in his breast was, that his implacable foe Jonathan Wild had survived the wound inflicted by Blueskin, and was slowly recovering. 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. “Do not force me to take you seriously,” she continued.
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