I can’t. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. I next proceeded to Jenny Bunch's, the Ship, in Trig Lane—there I got the same answer. Ramage?” he asked. It came into her head with real emotional force that this must be some particularly fantastic sort of dream. This employment seemed to afford him the highest satisfaction; for a diabolical grin—it cannot be called a smile—played upon his face all the time he was engaged in it. She had never been able to discover where her father had hidden his shaving mirror. “You know of no one likely to have had a grudge against this man?” he asked. Gerald was conscious of that sliver of irritation again at mention of the name. It was a precious thing, a beautiful cabochon—do you know what that is?” “What’s a cabochon?” “It’s a precious jewel that doesn’t have facets yet.
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