No work that offered was at all of the quality she had vaguely postulated for herself. 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. They were now in a sort of cellar, at one end of which was a door. She knew blood was rushing to his face and other places as well.
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