"My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. She taught me how to crochet and cross stitch. You tried bravely enough to hide your preference, to look at us all with the same eyes, to speak to us in the same tone. The ball passed over his head, and lodged in the ceiling. “And what was that dreadful confession you had to make?” he was saying.
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