Love—admiration for your matchless beauty alone sways me. It can wait a bit longer. You really ought not to stay here and talk to us. ‘That’s better. She had even played in an opera by Verdi once, but had to dress as a boy to do it. Very slowly emerging out of a phase of stupefaction, these personal affairs and her personal problem resumed possession of her mind. 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. “NO!” she said, at last, with something in her voice that reminded Ann Veronica of a sprung tennis-racket.
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