He entered the room with his usual deliberation, and looked covertly about him. Guns were impossible. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. “That doesn’t touch the question I asked you,” she said. 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.
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