Daughters were not like sons. "A hundred dollars which was left from your husband's money. You must have figured that out by now. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. Austin, may repeat it if he pleases to his master, Jonathan Wild,—I have not. You will find proofs of the bloody deed in his room.
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