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. She looked upon it with pity as she drank his diabetic blood and saw that several of his fingers were missing. “Let us walk round to Covent Garden,” he suggested. ’ Colour suffused the man’s face.
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