Guided by the glare of the forge, which threw a stream of ruddy light across the road, Jack soon found the place of which he was in search. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. Ruth's arm trembled and her step faltered, but he was too far away in thought to be observant. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. I can never be grateful enough. ’ ‘So Charvill did tell him,’ Gerald said, once more staring into the hole in the wall. “Yet it is my last evening, and I think —if you are sure that you would like to have me—that I will risk it.
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