But though the breach was large enough to admit him below, he could not squeeze his bulky person through the aperture into the Red Room. There was, it might be said, a double illumination. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. A hollow plunge, echoed and re-echoed by the walls, marked his descent into the water. Perhaps Gerald was not as clothheaded as he had thought. On the bench was set a quartern measure of gin, a crust of bread, and a slice of cheese. ’ ‘Valade?’ ‘Aye, sir. —Jonathan Wild: August 31st, 1724.
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