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CHAPTER XXIII. A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. Every window in the public house was filled with guests; and, as in the case of St. "Every brick I take out," cried Jack, as fresh rubbish clattered down the chimney, "brings me nearer my mother.
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