I'm not quite such a greenhorn as Shotbolt, Jack, whatever you may think. At this moment, the landlord of the Crown, a jovial-looking stout personage, with a white apron round his waist, issued from the house, bearing a large wooden bowl filled with ale, which he offered to Jack, who instantly rose to receive it. His patient was distinctly of a different order of life. “As if it could possibly matter what such a person thinks of you. John’s best friend’s parents were to be out of town again, he reported. I worship you. It was as if the Devil himself had raped and defiled her mother.
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