"And so you'll turn highwayman, will you, you young dog?" continued the carpenter, cuffing him soundly,—"rob the mails, like Jack Hall, I suppose. Jack's life hangs on your determination. She asked the girl to fetch Mr. Tell Lucy about the time you were nine years old and blew up the house, John. He rambled in an unfortunate monotone, the result of his innate fear of public speaking. Amongst other things, he had just brought down an old laced bavaroy, a species of surtout much worn at the period. The cultivated indifference, which was part of the armour of his little world fell away from him. I hated him. It was just a chance that we in particular hit against each other—nothing predestined about it.
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