” He slipped off the horse. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. One only. She had black hair, fine eyebrows, and a clear complexion; and the forces that had modelled her features had loved and lingered at their work and made them subtle and fine. Now if you are ready to go with me, I too am ready. Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back.
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