"I generally do," replied Blueskin, pouring out a bumper of sack. But, uttering a loud cry, he was swept away by the headlong torrent. His looks were fixed on his old benefactor. Miss Moffatt, the history and moral instruction mistress, was particularly explicit upon this score, and they all agreed in indicating contempt and pity for girls whose minds ran on such matters, and who betrayed it in their conversation or dress or bearing. She led him up the long hall solemnly. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be.
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