Wood's cries: but, regardless of this, he darted along a passage, gained the shop, and passed through an open door into the street. He sat down on the sill of the open window, folded his arms, and stared straight before him for a long time over the wilderness of tiles and chimney-pots into a sky that was blue and empty. And as a natural consequence, they don’t do so well, and they don’t get on—and so the world doesn’t pay them. " "This is folly," cried Jack, controlling himself by a powerful effort.
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