"He sails to-morrow morning in the very vessel by which I start," replied Jack. A slow horror was dawning in his fixed eyes. It was denied him, for as he closed his eyes—though but for an instant—the whole scene of his former visit to the place rose before him. “I’m not coarse—no! But I’ve got no purity of mind—no real purity of mind. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. Lucy did her best to avoid talking about it, but the subject was beguiling, as it almost always brought news about him from the grapevine within which Michelle was intravenously entwined.
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