“Don’t you know?” “Oh! I know—” “Well—” Her face was an unaccustomed pink. “Great, Cathy. We may meet—who can tell? But I will not be fettered, even though you would make the chains of roses. "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 core of hurt rose up, tearing at her insides.
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