"'Sdeath! do you trifle with me, sirrah?" cried Rowland fiercely. "It was given me by a man who was drinking t'other night with Blueskin at the Lion! and who, though he slouched his hat over his eyes, and muffled his chin in a handkerchief, must have been Jonathan Wild. ‘Ain’t no call for you to go a-blaming of yourself. At first she could not tell what it was; but as her eyes became accustomed to the light, she recognized the old coat. He awoke, strangely content. ” 209 Clotilde was no fool. "I disown you. But if he speaks—I fear what he may tell. Mr.
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