Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person. His appearance excited the greatest astonishment and consternation amid the group. The inn was a military haunt. In one of the cabins a man sat on the edge of his narrow bunk. 13 with a latchkey went humming lightly up to her room. He tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke. Anna, quitting her chair, dropped on her knees by her sister’s side and took her hand. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo.
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