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. His face fell. “Can you spare me forty pounds?” she said. And, besides, she didn’t just immediately want to make her attempt. Sir Rowland laid his hand upon his sword. Her naked body was an abomination of caked filth and sagging tubes for breasts.
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