He knew that tragedy was as blind as justice, that it struck the child and the grown-up impartially. She guessed that he probably slept all of three hours a night at most. If you knew your aunt were alive, if she expected you, that would be different. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. As she averted her gaze, a terrible idea crossed her. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage.
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