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 and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait. She nibbled at his neck gently, sweetly, as her hand tracing his chest.
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