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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. She handled it half fearfully, and set it carefully down again. It always comes out sooner or later. She hoped the lights would become hot enough to melt her into the floor. “Who?” She asked.
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