It was plain that a man of his age could only be interested for one reason alone, yet she felt compelled to at know him a little before the main event. She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony. This person—this Jonathan Wild, whom I beheld for the first time, scarcely an hour ago, in Wych Street, is—I know not why—my enemy. One small wing lay at the north of the gate, where Giltspur Street Compter now stands; and the Press Yard, which was detached from the main building, was situated at the back of Phoenix Court.
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