"What of her?" cried the knight. Many little things had contributed to that decision. "I'll tell you all about it presently. 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. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. I feel at moments as though I could bolt for it.
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