I learned the trick of the place from one Paul Groves, who used to live here, and who contrived the machine. Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard. He said the place had gone to wrack. The body of Jack Sheppard, meanwhile, was borne along by that tremendous host, which rose and fell like the waves of the ocean, until it approached the termination of the Edgeware Road. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. The manager tells me that you are an American. "I have never been out of this horrible dungeon since we last met," he said; "though how long ago that is, I scarcely know. Only I’m so incensed with that crazy fool Gerald that—oh, well, never mind. The whole story of your relationship is a fabrication. Unless we can get some optimism into him, he'll probably start this all over again when he gets on his feet.
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