" "Lord bless us! you alarm me. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. The prison gates were besieged like the entrance of a booth at a fair; and the Condemned Hold where he was confined, and to which visitors were admitted at the moderate rate of a guinea a-head, had quite the appearance of a showroom. ” He passed his hand wearily over his forehead. ‘No, I do not go back. There is strength in you— misguided. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament.
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