He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. The spinsters had purchased one grass-linen tablecloth; the girl and the young man had purchased nothing. But she must stop him getting away. Surely his calculated desire to sit near her meant that his attention had surely been brought from its normal diversions into her realm. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. Telling the porter that he would attend to the house himself, he bade him go in search of Jack Sheppard. My poor brain is so mixed, dear, I hardly know what I am saying.
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