He would come swiftly to her aid, she knew it. She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat. 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. Right now my heart is occupied. “It’s okay Lucy.
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