Lucy slipped upstairs silently. God must love me, for he has guided me here. Jonathan Wild brought him off. It ceased to be the symbol of liberty and a remote and quite abstracted person, and became suddenly and very disagreeably the token of a large and portentous body visible and tangible. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. The iron slipped from his face, leaving it blank with astonishment. Her back arched slightly in response. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. "We're forgetting," he said.
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