She descended down the stairs of the house, sidestepping the refuse from bingedrinking teenagers that was strewn everywhere. ‘Étes-vous Francais?’ Her eyes, he noted, followed from himself to Hilary and back again, but she did not speak. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. These were so outside her experience that she found it possible to thrust them almost out of sight by saying they would be “all right” in confident tones to herself.
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