. . The blades on the top spun faster and faster. He went over his interview with her again, their conversation at dinner-time. Couldn’t make head nor tail of that note of yours. You say you have twenty-four hundred in your letter of credit. “It’s still a marvel to me that we are to be forgiven,” she said, turning. Why was he there? why did the tempter dare to invade that sacred spot! She could not answer her own questions, but vague fearful suspicions passed through her mind. "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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