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. "The poor things!" The manager laughed. ‘Can I not leave you for a day without you getting yourself into trouble?’ ‘Imbecile,’ she uttered faintly. “I am convinced you haven’t thought this out,” he went on. The expression pervading the countenance of the one was vulgarity; of the other, that which is rarely found, except in persons of high birth. She stared at his pleading face. He screamed in pain, doubling over with a howl as she stumbled out of the bed. "The end is the most beautiful in English literature.
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