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. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. What was she going to do? One main idea possessed her: she must get away from home, she must assert herself at once or perish. The clock struck half-past ten.
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