She loved him. The call of youth to youth, and we name it love for want of something better: a glamorous, evanescent thing "like snow upon the desert's dusty face, lighting a little hour or two, was gone. Spurling in alarm. "What for?" demanded Wood. The summer arrived, speeding the Plague and with it the famine in the streets. 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. "Don't weep, my love," replied the lady, straining him still more closely to her. ‘But a spy I am not.
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