“Agreed,” he said, “certainly,” and drew a checkbook toward him. In the pause she realized the attention of the others converged upon her, and that the tears were brimming over her eyes. Don’t think it was anything better than fever—or a bit beautiful. 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.
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