"You poor child!" said Prudence. 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. She was going to him soon and certainly, going to his strong, embracing arms. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. The stipendiary would have done it all very differently. Sheppard, who seemed to be crouching upon the floor. The very old lady in the antimacassar touched Ann Veronica’s arm suddenly, and said, in a deep, arch voice: “Talking of love again; spring again, love again. Have you anything to tell me before you go?” Annabel laughed lightly.
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