ToC That night Jack walked to Paddington, and took up his quarters at a small tavern, called the Wheat-sheaf, near the green. “I am much obliged to you,” he said. In the subdued light she could not tell whether he was asleep or awake. The salt air was fresher than the stale air in the manor. Sometimes he was obviously irritable and uncomfortable and unfortunate in his efforts to seem at ease. Profligate women are never reclaimed.
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