I keep my finger on the pulse of things. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. "Get up, mother," cried Jack; "do not kneel to him. Jonathan, however, paid no sort of attention to this demonstration of hatred. Having drunk as much as he thought prudent, and thanked his unknown friend for his attention, Jack again lay down on the straw, and indulged himself with another nap, intending to get up as soon as it was perfectly dark.
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