“What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia. 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. He had saluted her with elaborate civility, his eyes distended with indecipherable meanings. But you! Why the devil did you marry her? That's the thing that confounds me.
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