‘She won’t confide in you? Now, why?’ ‘Because that scoundrel Leonardo drummed it into her head that no man was to be trusted,’ Gerald announced viciously. Seventeen hours, sixteen hours. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. 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. Prison was beastly. “So, just how many foster homes were you in before the coming to live here?” “You don’t want to hear about all of that, Michelle. Marvel, in a tone intended to be consolatory.
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