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She knew she was a monster and so did they. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. “You know I’m old-fashioned, Miss Stanley. She would be enduing this chap with attributes he did not possess, clothing him in fictional ruffles. Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief.

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