She had arranged for a supper of tea, a boiled egg, and some tinned peaches. 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. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. One might have said that these trees grieved for their native soil; and, grieving, refused to bear. So, step by step, and hurt by hurt, Ruth was learning that John Smith was John Smith and nobody else.
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