"No, I won't hear you, murderer," rejoined Wood. 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. It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity. “I hope that you are going to allow me to see something of you during your stay in London, for the sake of old times.
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