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. Kimble was clearly a plain-spoken fellow. ‘Well, nothing,’ uttered her betrothed crossly, before Gerald could answer. ‘Espèce de bête,’ she snarled. Cool and sunny, it seemed that God himself smiled upon that day, the sunbeams streaming through the magnificent arches dustily as the priest murmured in soporific Latin.
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