"This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. But for me it doesn’t matter. Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard. I've watched this lad—this Sheppard—from infancy; and, though I have apparently concerned myself little about him, I have never lost sight of my purpose. There were mysterious rustlings that made him glance hopefully toward the sea. She leaned forward in her chair, as if petrified in fear by the scary story. Someone bounded up the stairs, which groaned from the strain, unmistakably Mike. "What is a sing-song girl?" she asked.
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