The Night-Cellar XVIII. The sunshine was brilliant, the air mild. “Your mother was a Gypsy. Norris. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. By following her he had discovered her secret nook in the rocks. I do not intend to be married, or to become engaged just at present. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. She was always asking questions about her mother and supplying the answers.
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