Taking his new purchase under his arm, Jack proceeded to a small tavern in the same street, where, having ordered dinner, he went to a bed-room to attire himself. Acting upon this humane determination, he impelled himself slowly backwards,—for he did not dare to face the blast,—and with incredible labour and fatigue reached the crevice. He was sitting back from the table now, with one arm over the back of his green chair and the other resting on the little table. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. Rot, no doubt; but we can’t alter it.
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