“If my own mother was alive,” sobbed Ann Veronica, “she would understand. A little Madeira seemed to recover her enough to resume the discussion. Indeed, it is rather a matter of whose death is close. 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.
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