There was the world besides, looming darker and larger. 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. He first met her when he had caught her smoking behind the Joliet LaudrO-Matic one cool overcast day in late August. Poor little one. It mattered not whether she flunked the year as she would soon be gone. Kneebone took his leave. The petals have fallen—the red petals we loved so.
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