Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard. “Oh, Veronica!” she said, “to leave your home!” She had been weeping. But the besetting evil of the place, and that which drew down the severest censures of the writers above-mentioned, was that this spot,—which of all others should have been most free from such intrusion—was made a public exhibition. But the crowning glory of Jonathan, that which raised him above all his predecessors in iniquity, and clothed this name with undying notoriety—was to come. Kneebone's 346 XIV. Perhaps it was loneliness. C. When Jack came to speak of Jonathan Wild, his countenance fell.
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