He had been formally adopted by the Becks at the age of twelve. The few whites he had ever known generally offered to pet him when they really wanted to kick him. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. He began to talk again in quick undertones that she could not clearly hear. He grunted, and his grip gave. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. She would never again be lonely. What is it? Good God!” An unhappy little smile parted her lips. She was practically an outcast, she had not even the ghost of a plan as to her future, and she had something less than five pounds in her pocket. He had come to Anna’s rooms from a dinner party, and he was in evening dress.
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