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. A great bowl of scarlet carnations gleamed from a dark corner, set against the background of a deep brown wall. “Very well,” said Manning. Listening at one of the doors leading to the Master Debtors' side, he heard a loud voice chanting a Bacchanalian melody, and the boisterous laughter that accompanied the song, convinced him that no suspicion was entertained in this quarter. Perhaps that was the reason why she enjoyed preparing suppers at the Becks. But this might be merely a figurative mode of describing his customary vigilance. She bound a scarf tightly round the place where the blood seemed to be coming from. You know the sort of thing.
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