However this may be, such was the ill report of the place that few passed along the Old Bailey without bestowing a glance of fearful curiosity at its dingy walls, and wondering what was going on inside them; while fewer still, of those who paused at the door, read, without some internal trepidation, the formidable name—inscribed in large letters on its bright brass-plate—of JONATHAN WILD. It did seem germane to the matter that so many of the people “in the van” were plain people, or faded people, or tired-looking people. “GOOD CATCH, ALBERT!” A husky girl had bayed as she witnessed the puck’s abrupt flight. “And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. “Further than that, I am amazed that you should dare to allude to those few moments, to that single moment of folly. Sir John looked about him, and somehow the laugh died away. “I—I didn’t love the man I was engaged to,” she said.
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