Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person. He now understood her interest in Taber, as he called himself: habit, a twice-told tale. She moved a little nearer to him. Too close, he reasoned, for safety. With a view to raise recruits for his corps, the warlike woollen-draper started for Lancashire, under the colour of a journey on business. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. “Begin violence, and the woman goes under. .
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