The arm about her was steel hard, and she felt the weapon that was placed at her heart, which thumped uncomfortably in her chest. If Jack should die, all though her fault, she could never forgive herself. "Flight is still left me," replied Trenchard. 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. The effort to maintain her self-control was almost superhuman.
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