Well, I'd no idea," she continued, pursuing her ruminations as she left the room, "that people of quality laughed so. Painting is only one slender branch of the great tree. There was some one there. Before ever I knew you. 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. . His voice propelled her to cry even harder, so hard that she began to laugh behind her tears. He did not speak for a moment. .
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