She dropped the manuscripts and swiftly brought the coat to him, noting that a button hung loose. She shattered the edifice he was building up of himself as a devoted lover, waiting only his chance to win her from a hopeless and consuming passion. He had taken it back. Suppose he stopped all her allowance, made it imperative that she should either stay ineffectually resentful at home or earn a living for herself at once. The temperature soared to one hundred degrees, sickeningly hot. She pulled her veil down, and he knew that silence was best. "At a place we call the Dark House at Queenhithe," answered Jonathan, "a sort of under-ground tavern or night-cellar, close to the river-side, and frequented by the crew of the Dutch skipper, to whose care he's to be committed.
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