"Your son's father was a thief; and Jonathan Wild (unless I'm misinformed,) was his friend,—so it's not unnatural he should show some partiality towards Jack. Well, I'd no idea," she continued, pursuing her ruminations as she left the room, "that people of quality laughed so. Without a single ornament about her neck, or hair, wearing the plainest of black gowns, out of which her shoulders shone gleaming white, she was easily the most noticeable and the most distinguished-looking woman in the room. You simply can’t. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. Never! Perhaps some day, quite soon, she might regret that breakfast-room. " "Here's a pocket-book full of notes, and a heavy bag of gold," said Blueskin, examining the articles on the floor. Stanley was inclined to think the censorship should be extended to the supply of what he styled latter-day fiction; good wholesome stories were being ousted, he said, by “vicious, corrupting stuff” that “left a bad taste in the mouth.
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