In the periphery of her vision, she saw the door pulled back. He was a shy boy outwardly but she knew him better in his thoughts, in which perhaps she had already taken upon the role of lover. It was too good to be true. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. When she spoke, her lips twitched. " Some innate sense of balance told her that something was wrong with these tales. 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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