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It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman. She would be elemental; there would be in her somewhere the sleeping tigress. She has already forgotten it. 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. That is why you came here, isn’t it?’ ‘Alors, now we know who is the spy, Monsieur Gérard. ‘Read that,’ and threw the telegram at me, so that it went into the tureen. “I am exceedingly sorry,” he said. ‘Who the devil is Leonardo?’ demanded Roding impatiently, asking the question that had leapt into the major’s mind. It was in no sense confessional; it was a state of mind in the patient the doctor had already anticipated.
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