My father's chief fear, I must tell you, is from the baneful influence of Jonathan Wild. “No,” she answered, reluctantly. Fly! fly!" "Do not think of me, mother, but of yourself," cried Jack, in an agony of tears. "Goodness only knows what he's reserved for," rejoined the widow in a desponding tone; "but if Mynheer Van Galgebrok, whom I met last night at the Cross Shovels, spoke the truth, little Jack will never die in his bed. I wonder if he really wants me to go home. Wood in the deepest mourning.
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