Let’s face it, she hates Missy’s guts. But I don’t think she lays hold of one so. 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. By this action, Lucy already knew what the answer was. In the present case it did not matter, as there was no one else within earshot.
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