Or perhaps my father once. Lucy heard a stir, but if Dawn Plote were to arise and come into the room, it could only mean two murders tonight. 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. They all balk because there aren't any petticoats.
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