“My husband!” she laughed a little derisively. In a tall glass the rind of a Syrian orange was arranged in spiral form. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. I pray, Anna, that you may find your happiness. We pretend we never think of everything that makes us what we are. ” He resumed, after a mouthful: “Here is a girl of sixteen or seventeen, seventeen and a half to be exact, running about, as one might say, in London. A loud buzz of curiosity circulated among the domestics; some of whom— especially the females—leaned forward to obtain a peep at the culprit. ’ He turned to the lodgekeeper behind him, whose shocked fear had given place to a direful frown.
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