Even in her own sorry skin-and-bones state of wraithlike pallor and gray under eye circles she was drawing unwanted attention from would-be admirers. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. Wrap yourself in my cloak, and keep it. ‘I do not steal,’ declared the lady hotly. Disillusion stands in one doorway of our house and Mockery in the other. It was the moment for smiles. Amiable and good-looking. 1.
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