In the general survey of the prison, taken in the preceding chapter, but little was said of the Lodge. Old London Bridge. Lucy wore it every day from then on. 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. “This is all very well,” she said, “but two out of the three are rank deserters— and if the papers tell the truth the third is as bad. He suddenly realized that he could not keep you for ever in this part of the world; so he sends you to your aunt.
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