"Yes. 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. “I wonder if you will?” “Let me say one thing,” he said. I guess. His lips were tight drawn. Stanley was inclined to think the censorship should be extended to the supply of what he styled latter-day fiction; good wholesome stories were being ousted, he said, by “vicious, corrupting stuff” that “left a bad taste in the mouth. The room behind was another small antechamber, presumably linking the back rooms. I don’t see how they can be. . “It was poison—why not?” she answered.
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