Jack instantly started to his feet, and the man, alarmed at his appearance, ran off to a neighbouring house. Gracious, there’s the gong. But not finding it, he had again recourse to the bludgeon, and began beating the hand fixed on the upper rail, until, by smashing the fingers, he forced it to relinquish its hold. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. "Farewell!" cried Jack, embracing them.
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