Purney, the ordinary, who had latterly conceived a great regard for Jack, addressed him in a discourse, which, while it tended to keep alive his feelings of penitence, was calculated to afford him much consolation. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. “You know,” he went on, “this doesn’t seem to me to end anything. It proved to be a human head, though with scarcely a vestige of the features remaining. Living, he knew that he would never send that letter. There was no other door in it, and Jack therefore struck into another entry which branched off to the right.
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