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I am suspected of having shot the man. But her great-aunt was nodding, as if this was what she had expected. Her eyebrows, pulled down by the stress of thought, now resumed their normal arches; and pleased with her discovery, she smiled. 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. The likeness was ridiculous. Perhaps her granddaughter might marry his grandson.
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