I admit it. The moment I entered the room, and found you a prisoner in the hands of Jonathan Wild, I guessed how matters stood, and acted accordingly. Do you know whoso portrait this is?" "I do not," replied Thames, repressing his tears, "but I believe it to be the portrait of my father. Gay, the poet, who wrote the 'Captives,' which was lately acted at Drury Lane, and was so much admired by the Princess of Wales. I’m ashamed to confess it, but I didn’t want the charge of you—a too close reminder of my own lost babe. They began the evening like usual, driving down highways and byways.
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