"My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. ‘Was you following, too, miss?’ ‘Certainly I was following. But all that could be ascertained in the village was, that a man had ridden off a short time before in the direction of London. Meantime, as the doctor was splitting his breakfast orange, he heard a commotion in his office, two rooms removed: volleys of pidgin English, one voice in protest, the other dominant.
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