It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. But perhaps if people didn’t like clear, bright, healthy eyes—which is biologically understandable—they couldn’t like precious stones. “But where are you going? Lucy, you’re safe here. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. One has to train one’s self not to.
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