She never expected to get her ladyship home alive. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. If only one might open the shutters and let in the light. Even there a woman never gets a fair chance. “Oh, you know,” she 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. I must have something in hand. ” “I’ve been certain of it for years.
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