I'll lay my life he's gone. Teddy overtook her, a little out of breath, his innocent face flushed, his straw-colored hair disordered. He looked up to see an ancient coach making its ponderous way down the street. For a long time she surveyed a row of towering holly-hocks, as though they offered an explanation. “I wish you and I had drunk that love potion,” he said. 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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