On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. She was sore with the perplexities of her preposterous position. Another was Baptist Kettleby, and a third, in a Dutch dress, was recognised by his grizzled beard as the skipper, Van Galgebrok. "She has flown up stairs," replied the widow. ” “Did you tell him of the registry office?” “No—o—certainly not so emphatically as I did about the play. ‘Gone!’ he said. \" Lucy replied. ” She blushed deeply. She listened, her suspicions confirmed. 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.
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