Not like my father. ToC That night Jack walked to Paddington, and took up his quarters at a small tavern, called the Wheat-sheaf, near the green. We are going to have this chap writing books one of these days. And so bitterly did the carpenter reproach himself with his neglect, that he resolved, at all risks, to go back in search of it. His subjects, however, were no longer entirely under his control; and, though he managed to enforce some little attention to his commands, it was evident his authority was waning fast. Certainly I never met him.
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