Winifred's reception was kind, but more distant, and after the slight ceremonial she resumed her occupation. Every article in the trunk was fully known to her, through a recounting of the list by the doctor. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. And we'll see whether it won't put the Italian opera out of fashion, with Cutzoni, Senesino, and the 'divine' Farinelli at its head. ’ Her face fell.
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