ToC That night Jack walked to Paddington, and took up his quarters at a small tavern, called the Wheat-sheaf, near the green. “Thank you, Martin,” she replied graciously. He turned in at the club. ‘In love? I? Don’t be ridiculous. But at this point he was still subservient, still outwardly humble, in spite of the blackhearted villainy that was even then burgeoning in his breast.
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