Kimble was clearly a plain-spoken fellow. It was a bizarre sight, a miniature manor, replicated fully, walled in gray limestone. At once divining the meaning of this ingenious device, he applied his mouth to the tube, and sucked away, while the person outside poured spirit into the bowl. "Give me your hand, Poll, to help me through," cried Jack, as he accomplished the operation. So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. He could not quite make her out; a new type.
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