Rowland's purposes were, however, defeated in a manner as unexpected as appalling. At a sign from Ah Cum, official custodian of the sightseers, the polechair coolies pressed toward the left and halted. "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 have found you. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word. “I’ll try to stop by.
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