Maggot was equipped in a light blue riding-habit, trimmed with silver, a hunting-cap and a flaxen peruke, and, instead of a whip, carried a stout cudgel. They had always gone without because of their secret lifestyle. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. Instead, she laughed, laughed with lips and eyes, laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. "But are you really there?" "No, I'm here," answered Jack, leaping down. Sewn on that button yet?" "I've been afraid to take the coat from under the pillow.
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