They were now in a sort of cellar, at one end of which was a door. My father thought the latter. He threw her on the bed. And then she came out into the street, sure only of one thing—that she could not return directly to her lodgings. 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. In a few minutes, an appalling change was perceptible. He shuddered.
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