"What is a sing-song girl?" she asked. “Nigel, Nigel,” she cried. . There was something fatalistic about the letter H. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. ’ ‘You little fiend,’ exclaimed Gerald wrathfully. The watcher's intake of breath was sibilant. It would be a great matter, I must own, to bring Jonathan Wild to justice. “I’m not coarse—no! But I’ve got no purity of mind—no real purity of mind.
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