But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. To fight inertia on the one hand and to study this queer girl on the other. “It was poison—why not?” she answered. She was wan and white. 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. Immediately the "boy" went forth with his paper lantern, repeating a cry as he ran—warning to clear the way. One morning he caught her hand suddenly and kissed it. But we've got to cook up some kind of a story to protect her. I want to but I cannot! Please accept that!” She yelled.
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