Her girl, Clarice, was ten and just as pretty as a silver bell. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. "If you have a child there, it certainly is not," answered Jonathan, a little surprised; "for I left your brat in the charge of Blueskin, who is still among the crowd in the street, unless, as is not unlikely, he's gone to see your other friend disciplined at the pump. 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. “Let me introduce my friend to you,” Courtlaw said. Spare me yet a little while, Father! not for my own sake, but for the sake of this poor babe.
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