The conversation turned towards the subject of the Diedermayer’s many European vacations. There were always parrots and parrakeets screaming in the fruit groves. "Now, Mr. Nuns, I mean. White,” the lady in black satin remarked. 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. She closed her eyes and felt again an echo of the swamping warmth that had attacked her when his lips met hers. "Do not endanger yourself on my account," rejoined his mother.
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