"Every brick I take out," cried Jack, as fresh rubbish clattered down the chimney, "brings me nearer my mother. She descended the stairs, and found herself at last in the street—alone. It was a precious thing, a beautiful cabochon—do you know what that is?” “What’s a cabochon?” “It’s a precious jewel that doesn’t have facets yet. ‘Desist, you little devil,’ he growled in her ear.
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