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She wet some absorbent cotton with alcohol and refreshed his face and neck. Mind, I, Baptist Kettleby, say so. Whence she came,—who she was,—and what she wanted,—were questions which naturally suggested themselves to Blueskin, and he was about to seek for some explanation, when his curiosity was checked by a gesture of silence from the lady. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. CHAPTER XXII. The Jacobite.
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