"Ah!" he exclaimed, "a letter, beginning 'dearest Aliva,'—that's your mother's name, Thames. . “You see you do not know how much of truth there is in his story. ’ He slid slowly down and collapsed to the stone floor, fainting dead away. She spoke slowly. 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. How the deuce, though, am I going to account for her? People will be asking questions when they see her; and if I tell the truth, they'll start to snubbing her. Sooner or later she’s going to run away again, and I want Frith to follow her and find out where she’s living. See how he gets on, father," he added, appealing to Wood: "the box seems to grow under his hands.
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