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. Every one turned to her in astonishment. It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it.
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