Edward Bribble stood between them with an open book. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. ” “I say,” she reflected, “you ARE rather the master, you know. She could learn nothing of her son, and only obtained one solitary piece of information, which added to, rather than alleviated her misery,—namely, that Jonathan Wild had paid a secret visit to the Cross Shovels. She’s naïve, and yet uncannily shrewd at times, and you daren’t rely on anything she says.
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