On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. The pair then descended Saffron-hill, threaded Field-lane, and, entering Holborn, passed over the little bridge which then crossed the muddy waters of Fleet-ditch, mounted Snow-hill, and soon drew in the bridle before Jonathan Wild's door. It has instead found you. "To be sure," returned Wild; "he's not only alive, but likely for life, if we don't clip the thread. It was she—— Anna’s nerves were not easily shaken, but she found herself suddenly clutching at the table for support. Oh, I think I understand, Annabel. A full-curled wig descended half-way down his back and shoulders; a neckcloth of "right Mechlin" was twisted round his throat so tightly as almost to deprive him of breath, and threaten him with apoplexy; he had lace, also, at his wrists and bosom; gold clocks to his hose, and red heels to his shoes. She stepped back quickly, and her hand knocked a wine-glass from the table to smash noisily on the floor. As she looked in this direction, the thief-taker raised his eyes—those gray, blood-thirsty eyes!—their glare froze the life-blood in her veins.
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