The picturesque scoundrel had the true gift; and Spurlock was filled with pity at the thought of such genius gone to pot. “We’ll go to a place where we can have a private room,” he 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.
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