“You needn’t be worried,” she said quietly. Gerald, I mean, not Madame Valade. She had not chosen her life, but she was foggy on whether or not it was right to deny others the right to join her in her suffering. Partly, from your confessor; partly, from other sources. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. She became more assertive, more defiant.
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