Seeing provisions in the window, Jack ventured in and bought a loaf. Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. “Why don’t you wear your white blouse more often? It is the prettiest shirt you own. Gay, the poet, who wrote the 'Captives,' which was lately acted at Drury Lane, and was so much admired by the Princess of Wales. ” He spoke a little nervously. I don’t know what has come over me.
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