tle of Dutch gin and a couple of clean pipes
on the table, and opened the conversation by saying, "What news from
London, sir?"

Before I could find an answer to this immensely comprehensive question,
an apparition advanced towards me, out of a dark corner of the kitchen.
A wan, wild, haggard girl, with remarkably beautiful hair, and with a
fierce keenness in her eyes, came limping up on a crutch to the table at
which I was sitting, and looked at me as if I was an object of mingled
interest and horror, which it quite fascinated her to see.

"Mr. Betteredge," she said, without taking her eyes off me, "mention his
name again, if you please."

"This gentleman's name," answered Betteredge (with a strong emphasis on
GENTLEMAN), "is Mr. Franklin Blake."

The girl turned her back on me, and suddenly left the room. Good Mrs.
Yolland--as I believe--made some apologies for her daughter's odd
behaviour, and Betteredge (probably) translated them into polite
English. I speak of this in complete uncertainty. My attention was
absorbed in following the sound of the girl's crutch. Thump-thump,
up the wooden stairs; thump-thump across the room above our heads;
thump-thump down the stairs again--and there stood the apparition at the
open door, with a letter in its hand, beckoning me out!

I left more apologies in course of delivery behind me, and followed
this strange creature--limping on before me, faster and faster--down
the slope of the beach. She led me behind some boats, out of sight and
hearing of the few people in the fishing-village, and then stopped, and
faced me for the first time.

"Stand there," she said, "I want to look at you."

There was no mistaking the expression on her face. I inspired her with
the strongest emotions of abhorrence and disgust. Let me not be vain
enough to say that no woman had ever looked at me in this manner before.
I will only venture on the more modest assertion that no woman had ever
let me perceive it yet. There is a limit to the length of the inspection
which a man can endure, under certain circumstances. I attempted to
direct Limping Lucy's attention to some less revolting object than my
face.

"I think you have got a letter to give me," I began. "Is it the letter
there, in your hand?"

"Say that again," was the only answer I received.

I repeated the words, like a good child learning its lesson.

"No," said the girl, speaking to herself, but keeping her eyes still
mercilessly fixed