Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. Strongly impregnated with the mingled odours of tobacco, ale, brandy, and other liquors, the atmosphere was almost stifling. 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. Even the basest objects sold in the 24 roadside shops were beautiful in some way. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. “Sure, but it’s not like you’re married, you know.
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