In consequence of the encouragement thus offered to dishonesty, and the security afforded to crime, this quarter of the Borough of Southwark was accounted (at the period of our narrative) the grand receptacle of the superfluous villainy of the metropolis. No one could take the place for anything but what it was, and even Gosse hesitated in the doorway. Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. She complained of the crowded cities, dismayed that the people were repopulating them like rabbits. Sir Rowland waved his hand, and the attendant withdrew. Gently each time Ruth drew down the arms. That was an admission all right.
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