He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. 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. ‘To take a baby all the way to France without a wet-nurse. I knew it. God would have taken mercy on her baby, seeing that she had already had too much pain and that he had taken her beloved mother. The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction. Saint Giles's Round-house XIII.
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