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In the heart of the jungle the dog had his private muck baths. ” “Very well,” he said. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. Regardless of the risk he incurred from some heavy stone dropping on his head or feet,—regardless also of the noise made by the falling rubbish, and of the imminent danger which he consequently ran of being interrupted by some of the jailers, should the sound reach their ears, he continued to pull down large masses of the wall, which he flung upon the floor of the cell. "That's tremendous!" he cried. In fiction you make the Chinese secretive, criminal, and terrible—or comic.
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