’ ‘And your precious vicomte didn’t wish for the English one,’ said Charvill, acid in his voice. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. ToC That night Jack walked to Paddington, and took up his quarters at a small tavern, called the Wheat-sheaf, near the green. The darkness prevented the carpenter from discerning the features or figure of the stranger; and the ceaseless din precluded the possibility of holding any communication by words with him.
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