Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person. This done, he unloosed the pulley, and the ponderous machine, which resembled a trough, slowly descended upon the prisoner's breast. Far away there was the one woman for this boy of mine—some human being who would understand the dear fool better than all the rest of the world. From the centre of the ceiling hung a replica of the temple lamp in the Taj Mahal. Speaking of mean, you watch out for Kate Bitchster. He did not know—and probably never would unless she told him—that it was very easy (and comfortable for a woman) to fall into slatternly ways in this latitude. I asked her to marry me, and she consented. .
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