He looked the boy over with interest. The young male, as she had actually seen him, had been of the sailor type, hard-bitten, primordial, ruthless. “I missed the hour of your release,” he said, “but I was at the Vindicator Restaurant. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. Kneebone, respecting the lawless career of Jack Sheppard, and struck with the probable fate that awaited him, the young man, as he contemplated this scene, fell into a gloomy reverie. I’m taking no chances. Perhaps it was loneliness. “You will write to me, I am sure—and from the date of your letter I trust most earnestly that I may come back to my old place as “Your devoted friend, “WALTER BRENDON. She meant to leave anyway, or so she would tell herself later.
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