‘What is this proof?’ ‘I will not tell you. ‘You mean that his missus is pretending to be my mistress? Lord-a-mercy!’ ‘Precisely. I saw him last night at Jonathan Wild's, after my escape from the New Prison. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. Presently her aunt sighed deeply and looked at the clock. "Begone, wretch!" cried the mother, stung beyond endurance by his taunts; "or I will drive you hence with my curses. ” “Well, perhaps it is a bit depressing. She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting.
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