"My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. The smell of gunpowder was strong in the room. In a momentary fury she seized and tore in pieces the study which remained upon the easel. One went in for painting, kept straight and married old Ferringhall a week or so ago—the Lord help her. The detective backed out slowly and closed the door without sound.
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