It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct. 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. “Well, I do. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms. The preparations to meet him were immense, roses were planted everywhere, white and drooping with honeyed fragrance.
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