Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. Canton was something like a blind alley; unless you were native, you couldn't get anywhere except by returning to Hong-Kong and starting afresh. You will do as I say, or—’ ‘Hoy!’ called Trodger from down the hall. “Take my advice,” he said hoarsely. ‘You will arrest me? For—for—’ ‘Trespass, theft and spying,’ snapped Hilary. From first to last, on this occasion, her aunt expostulated for about two hours.
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