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Chapter XXX SIR JOHN’S NECKTIE Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey little room writing letters. "Oh! nothing at all," answered Jack, sneeringly, "though this room's as much mine as yours, for that matter. The funeral procession had now approached the grave, around which many of the congregation, who were deeply interested by the sad ceremonial, had gathered. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. By this time, he had apparently accomplished all he desired; for moving the bottle out of Jack's reach, he appropriated it entirely to his own use, leaving the devoted lad to the care of the females. Gerald pressed against the wall, and signalled Roding to go to the other side of the door. The Protestant Flagellant, who whipped his soul rather than his body, who made self-denial the rack and the boot, who believed that on Sunday it was sacrilegious to smile, blasphemous to laugh! Spurlock had gone back spiritually three hundred years. 1 through 1. "Jonathan Wild, I'll be sworn," said Gay.
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