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This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. A few days ago I saw him leave your house. His salary was a few paltry hundreds a year. She was afraid people would follow her, she was afraid of the dark, open doorways she passed, and afraid of the blazes of light; she was afraid to be alone, and she knew not what it was she feared. “Why don’t you?” “Well, it might mean rather a row.
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