At the present moment she was living in a world of her own creation, a carnival of brave men and fair women, characters out of the tales she had so newly read for the first time. 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. Her companion was a person of no inferior condition. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. They confronted each other, barely feet apart, neither apparently any longer aware of anyone else in the room. It drives him to my island, where I can study him to my heart's content.
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