“The truth!” Annabel bent over her and whispered in her sister’s ear. " "Go, Sir," rejoined the knight, haughtily. But perhaps he was right not to tell you the truth. A cold shiver came over her. 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. My reception at West Kensington you know of.
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