She read the policeman’s rueful glance when she caught his refection in his rearview mirror. Clothes. 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. She turned them down and gently placed the violin back in its red fake fur lined chamber. Impressionable, lonely, a deal beyond his analytical reach, the girl might let her sympathies go beyond those of the nurse.
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