She sat down by the paperrack with a general feeling of resemblance to Vivie Warren, and looked through the Morning Post and Standard and Telegraph, and afterward the half-penny sheets. She was sore with the perplexities of her preposterous position. “I wish,” she said, “that you would leave off looking at me as though I were something grisly. And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered. “Just look that through, will you. It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered. Sheppard. ’ She released the pistol which lay in her lap and gestured expressively with her hands. ” His eyes were closed. 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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