8. Maybe it’s his loss. There was no way of recalling the words; so she waited. 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. "Put it under my pillow," he said. In the recess beside the fireplace were some open bookshelves.
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