Whatever anticipation Ann Veronica had formed of this vanished in the reality. My dear—I can call you that here, anyhow—I know that. She told us that it was a disguise. " "By Jack Sheppard!" exclaimed the thief-taker. "From Jonathan Wild's confidential servant what could be expected but treachery?" With this, he proceeded to dress himself in Quilt Arnold's clothes, pulled the wig over his face and eyes so as completely to conceal his features, slouched the hat over his brows, drew the huge boots above his knees, and muffled himself up in the best way he could. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss.
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