" "My poor son!" groaned the widow, sinking backwards. There are way-stations—even terminals. His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise. In rushed Mr. Seventeen hours, sixteen hours. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be.
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