“MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. ’ She gave him a straight look. . However, it doesn't much signify. What of madame, his wife?’ ‘You know more of her than me,’ the girl said with a look of scorn. 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 realized it was possible to be sorry for him—acutely sorry for the situation.
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