She saw now that it was not a dissipated face; it was as smooth and unlined as polished marble, which at present it resembled. “But what are you going to do?” asked Hetty. "Don't touch me. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. ‘Sleeping like a baby, he is.
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