Vorsack sauntered into the room, sporting her usual toothy thin254 lipped grin. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. There were mysterious rustlings that made him glance hopefully toward the sea. But when she spoke her lips quivered, and they came. She laughed nervously, but kept her eyes averted. And opposite to him, with a book in his hand,—but it couldn't be a prayer-book,—sat Jonathan Wild, in a parson's cassock and band.
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