” “I am really curious,” she persisted. “Come to my rooms and have a drink. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. I haven’t murdered any one, or broken the law in any way that I know of. The pair then descended Saffron-hill, threaded Field-lane, and, entering Holborn, passed over the little bridge which then crossed the muddy waters of Fleet-ditch, mounted Snow-hill, and soon drew in the bridle before Jonathan Wild's door. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless.
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