" "'Sblood!" cried Jackson, rising, "I can't sit still and hear Mr. " "From some of your associates?" "From your uncle, from my uncle,—Sir Rowland Trenchard. Her bonnet dropped off and was trampled into the gutter. "You will never leave me," sobbed the poor woman, straining him to her breast. But," said the fellow, with a laugh, "he soon contrived to make his way out on it, though. This gate, called Newgate, "as being latelier builded than the rest," continued, for upwards of three hundred years, to be used as a place of imprisonment for felons and trespassers; at the end of which time, having grown old, ruinous, and "horribly loathsome," it was rebuilt and enlarged by the executors of the renowned Sir Richard Whittington, the Lord Mayor of London: whence it afterwards obtained amongst a certain class of students, whose examinations were conducted with some strictness at the Old Bailey, and their highest degrees taken at Hyde-park-corner, the appellation of Whittington's College, or, more briefly, the Whit. One can't help being jealous, you know, even of an unworthy object. " "Does that villain still maintain his power?" asked the stranger sternly. —Strype's Stow.
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