He refused his food,—and even when better provisions were offered him, rejected them. There’d only be endless rows if I was at home. Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. "To-morrow it will be mine.
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