Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. "Sit down, fool!" "Jack," said Kneebone, who had been considerably interested by the foregoing scene, "are these regrets for your past life sincere?" "Suppose them so," rejoined Jack, "what then?" "Nothing—nothing," stammered Kneebone, his prudence getting the better of his sympathy. Glancing idly up at her own window as they had swung round the corner she had seen a strange thing. Its walled heaved with black mildew and sea-salt.
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