She had also observed that he was still
intimate with the Wilsons. She had seen him walking and talking
with both father and son; her old friends too; and she had shed
unregarded, unvalued tears, when some one had casually told her of
George Wilson's sudden death. It now flashed across her mind that
to the son, to Mary's playfellow, her elder brother in the days of
childhood, her tale might be told, and listened to with interest by
him, and some mode of action suggested by which Mary might be
guarded and saved.
All these thoughts had passed through her mind while yet she was in
prison; so when she was turned out, her purpose was clear, and she
did not feel her desolation of freedom as she would otherwise have
done.
That night she stationed herself early near the foundry where she
knew Jem worked; he stayed later than usual, being detained by some
arrangements for the morrow. She grew tired and impatient; many
workmen had come out of the door in the long, dead, brick wall, and
eagerly had she peered into their faces, deaf to all insult or
curse.
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