It was the girl. Her aunt arrived about halfpast ten, in black and with an unusually thick spotted veil. Don’t look so frightened. Sheppard. 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. He removed his cockaded hat, putting it down between them as he sat at the other end, placing himself at an angle and, crossing his legs, leaned back at his ease, his eyes fixed on her face. Jonathan, though a very powerful man, was like an infant in his gripe.
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