"Every brick I take out," cried Jack, as fresh rubbish clattered down the chimney, "brings me nearer my mother. Then they would leave and she would go back to being alone. There must be persons tender and loving in this world. Clearing the recess the instant after his companion, he flew to the door of the inner room, and, locking it, took out the key. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. Just a friendly polite suggestion. You know the danger of this breakneck road as well as I do.
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