She held it by the neck and broke the end of the bottle on the hard dirt. “How shall I put the question? What am I? What have I got to do with myself?. ‘Yes, do,’ approved Lucilla. The voice of the young seaman came floating down from the masthead, and the story of the immortal lovers had begun. Certain simple purposes emerged from the disingenuous muddle of her feelings and desires. She was wearing a becoming tea-gown, and it was quite certain that Sir John would not be home for several hours at least. She realized that he was the sort of man one does not think much about at dinners. “Thank you—for coming,” he said. My house is the next door to the Cooper's Arms, in the Old Bailey, opposite Newgate.
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