The woman shrugged her shoulders. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she threw at him, her brief attack of sobs already ended, although the trace of tears on her cheeks bore witness to its sincerity. “Pretend,” he said, “that all I have said hasn’t been said. 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. They embarked upon an open and declared friendship. “It was unpleasant while it lasted, but it is over —and my toasted scones are delicious.
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