“So Mr. Lucy stepped inside. Through one doorway she saw a grave Chinaman standing on a stage-like platform. It was lent me by a countryman o' mine; but I paid him back in his own coin—ha! ha!" "A countryman of yours, Terry?" "Ay, and a noble one, too, Quilt—more's the pity! You've heard of the Marquis of Slaughterford, belike?" "Of course; who has not? He's the leader of the Mohocks, the general of the Scourers, the prince of rakes, the friend of the surgeons and glaziers, the terror of your tribe, and the idol of the girls!" "That's him to a hair?" cried Terence, rapturously. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. While waiting for his coming she had stated her present and future relations with him with what had seemed to her the most satisfactory lucidity and completeness.
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