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. The likeness was ridiculous. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. It’s to do with adolescence. It hit her just above the knee.
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