He stared at her breasts while he touched them. He passed his arm under that of the constable, and drew him aside. Another door was next opened, and, preceded by the ordinary, with the sacred volume in his hand, the prisoner entered the room. In a convent, you understand, one is like a servant, even if one is a lady. 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.
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