A wooden balcony in one of the adjoining houses was thronged with ladies, all of whom appeared to take a lively interest in the scene, and to be full of commiseration for the criminal, not, perhaps, unmixed with admiration of his appearance. She shut her lips hard, her jaw hardened, and she set herself to struggle with him. It began to rain, a cold sweat of precipitation that was more sickly than refreshing. Wood, with a candle in his hand, which Jack instantly blew out, and darted down stairs. We remember it. She could learn nothing of her son, and only obtained one solitary piece of information, which added to, rather than alleviated her misery,—namely, that Jonathan Wild had paid a secret visit to the Cross Shovels. But perhaps if people didn’t like clear, bright, healthy eyes—which is biologically understandable—they couldn’t like precious stones.
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