She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. The doors were closed and barricaded, and the mob threatened to burst them open if Jack was not delivered to them. He was snoring stupidly. “You belong to me,” he said fiercely; “the marriage certificate is in my pocket. After feasting his eye upon this superb panorama, he was about to return, when he ascertained from a farmer that his nearest road to Willesden would be down a lane a little further on, to the right. .
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