Her rambles as a child had not been confined to Charing Cross and St.Giles.She had often wandered down to London Bridge.

She loved the bustling life on the river; she delighted in gazing into the shop windows of the quaint houses on the bridge which to her youthful imagination seemed to be nodding at each other, for so close were some that their projecting upper storeys nearly touched.
She decided in that confused glance of hers through the window that the coach was nearing the extreme end of the Poultry.

She recognised the Poultry Compter with its grim entrance and wondered whether the coach would go straight on to Cornhill and then turn northward towards Finsbury Fields, or southward to London Bridge.
For the moment all she thought of was her destination, and when she was able without attracting her companion's, attention again to peep out of the window she saw the coach was at the foot of London Bridge.

The driver had been compelled to walk his horses, so narrow and so dark was the passage way.
The nightbirds of London were on their rambles looking out for prey; the bridge was thronged.

The people for the most part were half drunk--they were the scourings from the low taverns in the Southwark Mint.