” “What’s our lot?” asked her sister. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. I daresay you have the whole thing wrong, Gerald. To this Jack replied, that he should be perfectly contented, provided he might have a small allowance of gin. See paragraph 1. . . You’re tired, of course. Return to him, I say—" "I can't," replied Jack, doggedly. She gently placed the car back upon the ground. "I have killed her," cried Jack. On the cords being removed, he made a desperate spring at Wild, bore him to the ground, clutched at his throat, and would, infallibly, have strangled him, if the keepers had not all thrown themselves upon him, and by main force torn him off.
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