Wood's favourite sitting-room, and her image was so intimately associated with it, neither the carpenter nor his daughter could muster courage to enter it before. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. She felt her canines grow, the hunger consuming her. The latter no sooner beheld him than he dashed hastily into an adjoining room. " "More blood! more blood!" cried Trenchard, passing his hand with agony across his brow. She meant to go, she meant to go, she meant to go.
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