"Every brick I take out," cried Jack, as fresh rubbish clattered down the chimney, "brings me nearer my mother. But, finding the cellar-door open, concluded he had got out that way. I keep on thinking of little details and aspects of your voice, your eyes, the way you walk, the way your hair goes back from the side of your forehead. But it is the truth. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it.
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