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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. It was no marriage at all. The Wastrel did not relish this. I did all for the best, I'm sure. Both of them. She was trying to bring her problems to a head, and her mind insisted upon being even more discursive and atmospheric than usual. She thought me— filthy. Darrell attempted to reply. She went on her way now no longer dreaming and appreciative, but disturbed and unwillingly observant behind her mask of serene contentment. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly.
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