See paragraph 1. ToC That night Jack walked to Paddington, and took up his quarters at a small tavern, called the Wheat-sheaf, near the green. \"God, it's too curly for a brush. In one grave, mind. ’ ‘Hadn’t the wit, you mean. He was not quite sure whether, after all, he had been wise. She was quite the rage, in a small way, you know. You are you.
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