They were alike in one phase—loveless and lonely. "What for?" demanded Wood. ‘Say it. It'll be your turn to save mine next. Not a word passed between them. There is a place—This isn’t the place. 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. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts.
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