She could learn nothing of her son, and only obtained one solitary piece of information, which added to, rather than alleviated her misery,—namely, that Jonathan Wild had paid a secret visit to the Cross Shovels. Nothing more forlorn could be conceived. “Ah, Vee,” he said, “that’s better! and kissed her back rather clumsily. "Then it is not too late to save him. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page.
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