Of this boy she had only caught a glimpse;—but that glimpse was sufficient to satisfy her it was her son,—and, if she could have questioned her own instinctive love, she could not question her antipathy, when she beheld, partly concealed by a pillar immediately in the rear of the woollen-draper, the dark figure and truculent features of Jonathan Wild. ‘Something wrong, madame?’ Her fan came up swiftly, hiding the lower part of her face. She sensed he might try and wane on her doorstep. Perhaps the sunken cheeks and the protruding cheekbones gave her this impression. Now lend me your own hand. “I do not blame him.
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