The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. “You had only to ask——” “Do you think,” Anna interrupted, with a note of passion trembling also in her tone, “that I would have taken alms from Sir John, the man to whom I had lied for your sake. As usual Brendon lit the candles, and Sydney dragged out the spiritlamp and set it going. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. There is the key. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly.
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