Her eyes were lit with mirth, the corners of her mouth quivered. 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 closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. It is picturesquely situated beneath a tree on the high road, not far from the little hostel before mentioned, and at no great distance from the church.
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