She required no instructions from books; her wit and beauty were her own. At this moment, the landlord of the Crown, a jovial-looking stout personage, with a white apron round his waist, issued from the house, bearing a large wooden bowl filled with ale, which he offered to Jack, who instantly rose to receive it. There was nothing in his manner to suggest the misery of the preceding night. “Can’t you believe me? I am Meysey Hill. Good-looking girl. ‘You don’t favour her, bar the black hair. Twenty guineas, mind. But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back.
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