Like a hare closely pressed, Jack attempted to double, but the device only brought him nearer his foes, who were crossing the field in every direction, and rending the air with their shouts. A murmur ran through the assemblage, by several of whom Jack was recognised. He was disquieted. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. But, by Jove! it’s going to make our loving a fiercely abstract thing. ‘Even the nuns they say I am like a devil.
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