‘In the bookroom, sir,’ answered the man, his eyes round as they took in the furious beauty at the visitor’s side. There sat Jack, evidently in the last stage of intoxication, with his collar opened, his dress disarranged, a pipe in his mouth, a bowl of punch and a halfemptied rummer before him,—there he sat, receiving and returning, or rather attempting to return,—for he was almost past consciousness,—the blandishments of a couple of females, one of whom had passed her arm round his neck, while the other leaned over the back of his chair and appeared from her gestures to be whispering soft nonsense into his ear. Recollect, he's chained to the ground by a great horse-padlock, and is never unloosed except when he comes to that hatch. He knew not how to act, urged as he was in two directions. ‘And it is not only a question of her identity, but a matter of her life as well. "Your son's father was a thief; and Jonathan Wild (unless I'm misinformed,) was his friend,—so it's not unnatural he should show some partiality towards Jack.
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