His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. Maybe half a year, counting this summer. Feeling rather exhausted, it occurred to him that possibly some provisions might have been left by the constable; and, looking about, he perceived a pitcher of water and a small brown loaf on the floor. Nor had Jack been idle all this time. “Thank you,” he said, “for letting me back. He turned round toward her and found her looking at him and standing very still. My mom doesn’t realize that I’ve got my own style. But her cries, instead of moving her assailant's compassion, only added to his fury.
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