“We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. In response to an almost imperative gesture from the nurse, Anna laid her hand upon his. Outside the door stood one of the soldiers. 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.
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