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. Somebody to depend upon her; somebody to have need of her, if only for a little while. It was not a long prayer. “Very funny. Was he really awake? The arrival and departure of this strange father lacked the essential human touch to make it real. The father was a madman.
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