“Well, what is it?” “Montague Hill is recovering consciousness,” he said. 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 I suppose it is too much to expect that any entirely English young lady would be prepared to tolerate me for the remainder of my life. You may have something to conceal, you may not.
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