It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. Stanley, produced a portrait from its hiding-place in the jewel-drawer under the mirror. He was only a younger son, and you know what trouble we had. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. ” She fumbled with her keys and opened the front door.
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