With a rustle of her full lilac petticoats, Miss Froxfield turned back to Alderley. “Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. She pulled her hand away quickly. Gerald raised his cockaded hat, and smiled. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. . 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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