’ I don’t know what you’d call it —a sort of witchery, almost suggestiveness. He obeyed, letting the garment fall to the floor. She's too pretty and unusual. It was maddening to be made to feel that he was in any way the inferior of this cool, self-possessed young woman, whose eyes seemed for a moment to scintillate with scorn. He is Jacques. 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. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. It had been her home for hundreds of years.
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