What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps. It was the first—and the last! At this juncture, the handle of the door was tried, and the voice of Mr. Lucy cringed, her eyes widening. We’re going in. Man or woman. At this moment, the landlord of the Crown, a jovial-looking stout personage, with a white apron round his waist, issued from the house, bearing a large wooden bowl filled with ale, which he offered to Jack, who instantly rose to receive it.
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