"My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it. Brutes! They are the brute still with us! Science some day may teach us a way to do without them. She is setting out for Hartford, Connecticut.
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