The truth was impossible, indecent. Yield up the babe, and I pledge my word you shall remain unmolested. They had refused. ‘I’m not going to arrest you, young Jack—yet. ‘There is no question of a dispute. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. While the cloth was laid, the host and Thames descended to the cellar, whence they returned, laden with a number of flasks of the same form, and apparently destined to the same use as those depicted in Hogarth's delectable print—the Modern Midnight Conversation.
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