" "Thank'ee,—thank'ee. His father and mother are gone now. The land about these walls is a common graveyard. 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. Wild!" demanded Trenchard, as if he had formed a sudden resolution. He had tossed an honoured name into the mire; he required no prison bars to accentuate this misery. Wild, and his uncle, Sir Rowland Trenchard. Do you think that it makes for happiness to force oneself into the extravagant belief that love is the only thing in the world worth having, and to sacrifice for it independence, self-respect, one’s whole scheme of life. She would end alone.
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