“And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. “Nor am I now,” he answered. Why had he offered her that kiss on board The Tigress? Perhaps that had been his hour of disenchantment. Ousted from his old retreat, the Cross Shovels, Baptist Kettleby opened another tavern, conducted upon the same plan as the former, which he denominated the Seven Cities of Refuge. It was a neat, efficient-looking room, with a writing-table placed with a business-like regard to the window, and a bookcase surmounted by a pig’s skull, a dissected frog in a sealed bottle, and a pile of shiny, black-covered note-books.
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