At the threshold of the study he bade her good-night; but he did not touch her forehead with his lips. “I can’t. "He is gone!" cried Mrs. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. An inarticulate instinct which now found expression. "They say her son's taken at last, and is to be hanged.
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