Stanley, produced a portrait from its hiding-place in the jewel-drawer under the mirror. 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. Unobserved, she knelt and kissed the threshold: for she knew what kisses were now. Yes, yes, there is no doubt about it. “I see nothing of my sister,” she said. Wood's reception of the widow, who, at that moment, was ushered into the room by Winifred, was not particularly kind and encouraging. Manning; and repeated, “a sort of history. If not, I'll take a cheerful glass with you at the City of Oxford, on my way to Tyburn.
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