" As he spoke, the door of the round-house was opened, and a stout man, with a lantern in his hand, presented himself at the threshold. “I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!” She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had savored the words. "Because it's not like you," was her answer. 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. ” And to that, through vast rhetorical meanderings, she clung. Beneath that tree let us lie.
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