ToC That night Jack walked to Paddington, and took up his quarters at a small tavern, called the Wheat-sheaf, near the green. He was a manly man, free from any strong maternal strain, and he had loved his dark-eyed, dainty bright-colored, and active little wife with a real vein of passion in his sentiment. Unexpectedly he found himself speeding toward the father. She had never imagined life was half so sinister as it looked to her in the beginning of these investigations. "What's your name?" he said, addressing the audacious lad, who was looking about him as coolly as if nothing material was going on. He well knows that but two lives—those of Thames Darrell and Sir Rowland Trenchard,—stand between you and the vast possessions of the family. “Who did you live with before the Becks? I hear things. She came back with two women, one in each arm, which she threw down like sticks as she alit onto the stone causeway. Her formerly brown hair was dyed a white shade of blonde.
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