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. “Please come home. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. ” Lucy spoke up, “We used to call that ‘playing the coquette’. I hear the sound of his horse's feet in the yard. I’m a soldier, you see. Baffled in their attempt, the mob uttered a roar, such as only a thousand angry voices can utter, and discharged a volley of missiles at the soldiery.
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