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It’s the public entrance. The constable, Sharples, is in my pay. 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. I was supposed to do the same, but I didn’t. Besides, he was a Yale man. There were a few loose, broken fragments of rock to reckon with upon the ledges, and one place where hands did as much work as toes.
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