She regarded him coldly, as though wondering whether he had anything further to say. “My mind is full of confused stuff,” he said at length. "Your son," replied Jack,—"your miserable, repentant son. “Like a stab. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. There had been disappointments and humiliations, and although she hated to admit it even to herself, she was in desperate straits.
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