The thin stream of blood on which her eyes were fastened with a nameless horror reached almost to her feet. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. ‘Very well, mademoiselle, so be it,’ he snapped.
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