Couldn’t face me with what he’d done, the miserable blackguard. 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. Sir John felt and looked several years younger. The house was eerily silent, which alerted her to the idea that someone might be listening.
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