Section 3. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. Walpole's order to that effect—but not before. " With this, he appeared to pluck up his courage, and stepped forward more boldly. “Of course it is okay!” Cathy’s voice rose in volume and in pitch. “Who is the tenant of these rooms?” he inquired. The light of memory flashed in the man’s face.
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