"Every brick I take out," cried Jack, as fresh rubbish clattered down the chimney, "brings me nearer my mother. You forget that every one is going to the ‘Unusual’ to see her. More than half the city perished. "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. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity.
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