"A capital instrument for my purpose," thought Jack, shouldering it, "and worth all the trouble I have had in procuring it. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. When Jack came to speak of Jonathan Wild, his countenance fell. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously.
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