A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. His wife met him at the door, and into her hands he delivered his little charge. "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. So, forthwith, without any preliminaries beyond introductions, he began the ceremony; and shortly Ruth Enschede became Ruth Spurlock, for better or for worse. "Do you mean to tell me he's come and gone in an hour? What the devil kind of a father is he?" Spurlock shook his head. “What ought she to do?” “Suppose you—” “Yes, suppose I—” He felt that his advice was being asked. I suppose I was a little idiotic—I don’t think we either of us mentioned the future, but it was arranged that I should go the next afternoon and have tea with her. ‘Monsieur Charvill thought perhaps that his daughter would find not a welcome.
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