Whatever she does is minimized. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. “Not really. Stanley decided to treat that as irrelevant. ‘If you did not want me to talk of it,’ she told him with characteristic insouciance, ‘you should not have mentioned the matter to me.
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