That she possessed any sense of humour was in itself one of those human miracles which metaphysicians are always pothering over without arriving anywhere; for her previous environment had been particularly humourless. "What is he gone there for?" "With a message to the turnkey to look after his prisoner," replied Wild, with a cunning smile. But he is kind of cute. I do not even know his name. It is a matter of degree. But you must see her alone; and that'll be no easy matter to manage, for she's a great invalid, and has generally somebody with her. Jonathan Wild's House in the Old Bailey XVII. ‘Do not imagine that I will leave poor Jacques.
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