It was Annabel who spoke. 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. Why may I not be your friend? Somehow or other I feel that you have been driven into a false position. In some incomprehensible way that back view made her feel sorry for Alice.
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