"My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. Sheila wouldn’t allow me to date a boy even if he was only fifteen—I mean sixteen, like I am, you see. For freedom at least. One thing—he could be thankful for that—the peak of his misfortunes had been reached; the world might come to an end now and not matter in the least. It was horrible, but she must do it. After all, what can it matter? It was just to make sure. Besides, your remark is not in the least complimentary. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. ‘By traitors I am surrounded!’ ‘Stop talking utter twaddle,’ ordered Roding, marching up to the desk. Mind you don't stir till supper's over. Do you understand?’ ‘Aye, sir. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. On the way he confessed. The significance of the kiss was still obscure to her, though she had frequently encountered the word and act in the Old and New Testaments and latterly in novels.
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