This, then, was the cause of the widow's wild inexplicable look,—of her sudden shriek! Explaining his suspicious in a whisper to Jack's captor, who proved to be a church-warden and a constable, by name John Dump,—Mr. Tombs were desecrated, beautiful statues toppled, and the colorful shops that she had been enchanted by along the canal had been closed or burned. A cry was then raised by the leaders to attack Wild's house, and the fury of the mob was instantly directed to that quarter. That she possessed any sense of humour was in itself one of those human miracles which metaphysicians are always pothering over without arriving anywhere; for her previous environment had been particularly humourless. “The point is we’re not toys, toys isn’t the word; we’re litter. So was I, in fact. ‘—without telling her why,’ he finished, ignoring the interjection.
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