The young man was mollified by her sympathy, and flattered by the obvious attempts of several of the other guests to draw him into conversation. Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in the King's service. She had become unashamed of her nudity, altogether unfocused on her appearance. 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. They’re just all men, and no one is safe from scandal. ‘But―but how can he know?’ His soldier’s instinct overtook Gerald and he dropped all his insouciance in a bang, becoming brisk.
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