At this moment, the landlord of the Crown, a jovial-looking stout personage, with a white apron round his waist, issued from the house, bearing a large wooden bowl filled with ale, which he offered to Jack, who instantly rose to receive it. Several men and women were piled there like wood, dead, horribly gored. There was something which chilled even him in the cold impassivity of her features. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath. His most eager inquiries and most lavish bribes could gain no further information than that she had left for England, and that her address was—London. She never knew what became of her farmer after that. I don’t play anything.
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