Lucy dug out an old light gray cotton miniskirt that had shrunk on Shari in the wash. His looks were fixed on his old benefactor. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. In the '80s such a dress would have indicated considerable financial means; under the sun-helmet it was an anachronism; and yet it served only to add a quainter charm to the girl's beauty.
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