‘Dolt! Muttonheaded oaf! Why the deuce couldn’t he have sent you home?’ Valade cut in at that. Someone bounded up the stairs, which groaned from the strain, unmistakably Mike. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. . Anybody in pain had only to call to him. “By Jove!” he exclaimed.
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