"My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. "Bah!" cried Jack, contemptuously; "nobody's disgraced and ruined unless he's found out. The work of plunder over, that of destruction commenced. Can’t travel alone, a pair of nuns. ‘Do you think I could endure to hear you prattling your abominable French in my ear day by day? Enough to drive me straight into my grave. His large, coarse lips drew wider apart.
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