She could hear their footsteps upon the pavement. Mr. Not a star could be discerned, but, in their stead, streaks of lurid radiance, whence proceeding it was impossible to determine, shot ever and anon athwart the dusky vault, and added to the ominous and threatening appearance of the night. From time to time the man below would shout, and the boy would let the threads go with the snap of a harpist, only to recover them instantly. They went first to a hotel, and then out again on to the boulevards. She had tasted freedom now, and so far she had not felt the need of protection. It was an odd room, used principally for the reception of guests and visiting dignitaries, packed from end to end with ill-assorted sofas and padded chairs. 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. “I am exceedingly sorry,” he said. It appeared highly probable to her that he would stop her allowance. But as the mystery which surrounded Ruth fell away that which enveloped her father thickened. Lucy felt her eyes misting up, turning traitor.
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