ToC That night Jack walked to Paddington, and took up his quarters at a small tavern, called the Wheat-sheaf, near the green. He had never wanted daughters. His face was a little flushed perhaps, and his small, brown eyes were bright. Evidently in the flower of his age, he was scarcely less remarkable for symmetry of person than for comeliness of feature; and, though his attire was plain and unpretending, it was such as could be worn only by one belonging to the higher ranks of society. “You are not boring me,” she said, “but I would rather talk of something else. I secured the dog after he had wounded me.
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