Urging his steed along Oxford Road,— as that great approach to the metropolis was then termed,—he soon passed Marylebone Lane, beyond which, with the exception of a few scattered houses, the country was completely open on the right, and laid out in pleasant fields and gardens; nor did he draw in the rein until he arrived at Tyburn-gate, where, before he turned off upon the Edgeware Road, he halted for a moment, to glance at the place of execution. “I am going,” he said, “to be impertinent. I saw him last night at Jonathan Wild's, after my escape from the New Prison. He left that arid rule clear of the least mist of refinement or delicacy. Prison was bleak without spaciousness, and pervaded by a faint, oppressive smell; and she had to wait two hours in the sullenly defiant company of two unclean women thieves before a cell could be assigned to her. You have told me that you cared. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms. Not a bad man as men go, but he would sell whisky and gin.
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