They went into Michelle's tiny bedroom, bare except for a dresser, a closet, and a miniscule single bed that resembled her own at the Becks. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. I wonder if he really wants me to go home. The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. The clock struck half-past ten. " "Who told you this is his portrait?" demanded Trenchard.
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