The months that followed September spiraled downward. 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. He saw, without any particular regret, that this year he would have to forego the junket; but there would be ample compensation in the study of these queer youngsters. She was ashamed of herself for the simple gladness she felt wash over her as the infant’s screams ended. Jonathan is in league with Sir Rowland to make away with you. No one spoke to her.
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