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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. God bless you, Auntie! I'll go into the mills and make pulp with my bare hands, if you want me to. I'll be wanting my sixteen thousand. Not the most stringent search, conducted all morning, turned up one solitary sheet. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside.
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