The sense of publicity, of people coming and going about them, kept them both unemotional. "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 individual twist was always there, even in the cleverest forgeries. But though she lied about pretty much everything else, she didn’t lie about that. Only I wish that it did not remind one so much of a second-hand clothes shop. " "You say that the miniature was abstracted from Lady Trafford's jewel-box," said Jonathan, in a loud voice.
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