Nevertheless, she was still fighting. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. Sections and pages had been pasted together, and all through both Testaments a word had been blotted out. “Not home yet, miss,” the young man replied.
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