At the same time,” she added, in a suddenly altered tone, “it isn’t anything whatever to do with you, is it?” “Why not?” he answered. Does this not disturb you?” 278 “Of course it disturbs me. ‘Laisse-moi!’ Impatience swamped him. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. The primitive superstition of his Puritan forbears was his; and before this the buckler of his education disintegrated. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. Then to Dan Ware's, in Hanging Sword Court.
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