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Jack's former attempt to pass up the chimney, it may be remembered, was obstructed by an iron bar. He was a philosopher. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. I next proceeded to Jenny Bunch's, the Ship, in Trig Lane—there I got the same answer. Lucy went downstairs to prepare the hot cocoa that would be the last hot drink of the season, ruefully spiking the liquid with Nytol, just one tablet dissolved in a little warm water. She had a vision of policemen, reproving magistrates, a crowded court, public disgrace. "I can't say I do," replied Wood.
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