“It is a great art,” she said in broken English. She could not see what occurred, though she guessed it; but she saw Jonathan's devilish triumphing glance, and read in it,—"Your son has committed a robbery—here—in these holy walls—he is mine—mine for ever!" She uttered a loud scream, and fainted. But perhaps he was right not to tell you the truth. She felt him sometimes at night as he called to her in her dreams. It was such an unexpected stroke of fortune. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. “Now you must go,” she said firmly. It would be very hard perhaps to make you understand just how I feel about it. With a gesture which was without any kind of emotional expression, the manager indicated the silent crumpled figure on the floor and gave the room number.
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