” Ann Veronica was stung to helpless anger. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. 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. But the restraint exercised by her instinctive delicacy was very great; over and above coarse or sexual matters it covered religion and politics and any mention of money matters or crime, and Ann Veronica found herself wondering whether these exclusions represented, after all, anything more than suppressions. She veiled her emotion by taking off his overcoat. Ennison slightly——” There was a dead silence in the little room. But never mind that.
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