Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door. She was not allowed to bathe herself: another prisoner, with a privileged manner, washed her. His eyes were red. Give me your hand. 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. Or run me through. You shall swing for this after next sessions, or my name's not Jonathan Wild.
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