His pipe hung dead in his teeth, but the smoke was dense about him. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. At the open door stood a young man in a rich garb with a mask on his face, who was encouraging the mob by words and gestures. ” She realized it was possible to be sorry for him—acutely sorry for the situation.
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