“I mean to go to that dance! I meant to reason with you, but you won’t reason. It was a great weight from her shoulders to confide in another human being, and she suspected he did truly believe her. He thrust the smaller weapon into a scabbard that hung from his belt. “Now listen. Tell him about the island, the coconut dance, the wooden tom-toms; read to him. 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. ‘Poor things.
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