Wood's daughter,—to whom, I've heard tell, he was attached years ago,—was brought up, his courage forsook him altogether, and he trembled, and could scarcely stand. Under his arm he carried a thick, knotted crab-stick. Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her. "Get from under it, Jack!" vociferated Thames. The newcomer stopped short upon the threshold. I don’t know if I express myself clearly. 132 “I thought you wanted me—you told me so when we kissed in the park!” He cried. . . My father's chief fear, I must tell you, is from the baneful influence of Jonathan Wild. Leonardo was to me nothing at all.
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