The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. "He's not to blame," said Jack, rising. 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 told her something about music, the great world outside.
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