When he could find words, he tried by the most urgent solicitations to prevail upon the constable to let him out. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. “Married already,” he said, with his mouth full. Think! Had you not better hurry back before Sir John discovers? You are his wife right enough. It is that you cannot refuse her sanctuary. At least I rather hoped I might spend my time chasing smugglers, which would have afforded some excitement.
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