But get up behind, Blueskin. Kneebone. Spurling. Jackson. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. The blast shrieked, as if exulting in its wrathful mission. Jack's heart was too full to allow him to derive any pleasure from this scene; so he strolled on without raising his eyes till he arrived at Kensal Green. ‘Danged if I ever hear the like,’ he repeated blankly.
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