Newbury's Experience as a Fortune 500 Financial Services CISO and CTO Will Inform the Company's Business Strategy Supporting the World's Largest Organizations Immersive Labs, the leader in people-centric

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FTI Consulting announced the launch of the firms Cybersecurity practice in Spain with the appointment of Oliver Gower as a Senior Managing Director.

FTI Consulting Launches Cybersecurity Practice | FTI

Friends of the Farm nonprofit says relying on volunteers to consistently care for the animals while also trying to raise money is &quot;just overwhelming.&quot;

Nonprofit running Northport's Lewis Oliver Farm says it needs help to run animal sanctuary - Newsday

Oliver Hudson is opening up about being unfaithful in his relationship before marriage, as well as his thoughts on regret.

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Goldie Hawn&#x27;s son Oliver Hudson opened up about cheating on his wife ahead of their wedding and explained why he does not regret those &quot;horrible&quot; choices.

Oliver Hudson doesn't regret cheating on wife Erinn Bartlett before their wedding | Fox News

Oliver Hudson got candid about being unfaithful to his wife Erinn Bartlett during their engagement. The actor opened up on the most recent episode of the &#x27;Sibling Revelry&#x27; podcast that he hosts with sister Kate Hudson.

Oliver Hudson Admits He Was Unfaithful to His Wife Before Their Wedding: 'I Regret Causing Pain'

Kate Hudson&#x27;s and Blake Lively&#x27;s siblings Oliver Hudson and Robyn Lively admitted to feeling &quot;envy&quot; over their sisters&#x27; fame.

Kate Hudson's and Blake Lively's siblings Oliver and Robyn admit...

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Oliver Hudson on feeling 'envy' of sister Kate's career: ‘I’m not afraid to admit that’

Oliver

oliver

Oliver Rust, a veteran of data analytics with experience at Nielsen and the Engine Group, discusses how Truflation is transforming inflation measurement through advanced data collection and blockchain technology. In this interview, he shares insights on their innovative approach to tracking economic indicators and their recent expansion into the Indian market. Ishan Pandey: Hello Oliver, it's a pleasure to welcome you to our 'Behind the Startup' series. Please tell us about yourself and your journey with Truflation. Oliver Rust: I am a data guy who previously worked at Taylor Nelson Sofres, Nielsen and the Engine group and joined Truflation back in 2021. I was and still am excited by what Truflation can bring to the market: a more dynamic, transparent and faster delivery of financial and economic data sets designed for the decentralized marketplace. The applications of this data set are endless and provide many opportunities ahead. You have to be excited about that 🙂 Ishan Pandey: How do you see your approach as differing from traditional inflation-tracking methods like those used by government agencies? Oliver Rust: Truflation is so far ahead in measuring changes to inflation compared to government agencies, given that: Truflation makes the indexes available 30 times faster than current measurement tools and we report the indexes daily.


Truflation leverages over 80 data providers and aggregates worldwide, resulting in multiple data sources with different methodologies covering each category, creating a more representative and balanced measurement tool.


Truflation leverages census-level data, enabling us to access more than 40 million prices of goods and services compared to traditional indexes, which track roughly 100,000 items (varies by market)


Truflation uses open-source algorithms to make the data more transparent and deliver the unfiltered truth via our Truf Network, a decentralized platform, and


We measure the price changes from a consumer cost of living perspective. Ishan Pandey: Truflation recently launched a Hedge Index tracking Real World Assets (RWAs) to protect investments from inflation. Could you explain how it works and what its benefits are for investors? Oliver Rust: The Truflation Hedge Index is an insurance policy offsetting any losses from other investments and inflation. This index tracks the price movements of the five core asset classes: Gold, Silver, WTI Crude Oil, Bitcoin and S&P 500. The index fluctuates based on the underlying constituents' movements, calculated using the price movements based on the weighting contribution of each component. We brought this index live for the crypto community to be able to trade against and offset inflation and diversify individual portfolios. Ishan Pandey: Truflation is known for using real-time data to track inflation. How do you ensure the accuracy and relevance of this data in an ever-changing economic landscape? What tools or technologies do you rely on to support this? Oliver Rust: At Truflation we are used to handling census-level data and we have a 7 points quality control process that we have automated and deployed on the truf network that allows us to provide accurate data reflecting the price changes consumers are experiencing from a cost of living perspective. On top of this, leveraging a minimum of 3 data sources per index allows us to remove any dependency on one data set and provide more comprehensiveness to our indexes. Ishan Pandey: With your presence at India Blockchain Week (IBW), how does Truflation view the growing blockchain ecosystem in India? How do blockchain technology impact inflation tracking and financial services in this market? Oliver Rust: Being at India Blockchain week is buzzing here and exciting. There is so much energy and positivity to make change for the good that the community and their actions can not energize you. I am just happy that we are going to be part of it. Everybody needs accurate, reliable and transparent data, and we look forward to bringing this to the market in India. Ishan Pandey: Blockchain regulation in India is still evolving. How does Truflation navigate regulatory challenges in a market like India? Oliver Rust: Our focus is to provide information to the crypto community that they can leverage to create financial products from the economic and financial data that we provide through Truf Network. That is our focus at present. Ishan Pandey: At IBW, we see innovative blockchain projects' convergence. Are there any specific blockchain startups or institutions you are particularly excited to collaborate with in India? How can these partnerships enhance Truflation's product offerings? Oliver Rust: Having been at IBW it is exciting just to see the amount of innovative ideas and entrepreneurs that are launching so many new products in the market. This ranges from the gaming industry all the way through to data applications. This myriad of new solutions being brought to the marketplace is so exciting. We are lucky to partner with Levitate, which has backed so many start-ups that we are excited and eager to get going! Don’t forget to like and share the story! Vested Interest Disclosure: This author is an independent contributor publishing via our business blogging program. HackerNoon has reviewed the report for quality, but the claims herein belong to the author. #DYOR Oliver Rust, a veteran of data analytics with experience at Nielsen and the Engine Group, discusses how Truflation is transforming inflation measurement through advanced data collection and blockchain technology. In this interview, he shares insights on their innovative approach to tracking economic indicators and their recent expansion into the Indian market. Truflation Ishan Pandey: Hello Oliver, it's a pleasure to welcome you to our 'Behind the Startup' series. Please tell us about yourself and your journey with Truflation. Ishan Pandey: Oliver Rust: I am a data guy who previously worked at Taylor Nelson Sofres, Nielsen and the Engine group and joined Truflation back in 2021. I was and still am excited by what Truflation can bring to the market: a more dynamic, transparent and faster delivery of financial and economic data sets designed for the decentralized marketplace. The applications of this data set are endless and provide many opportunities ahead. You have to be excited about that 🙂 Oliver Rust: Ishan Pandey: How do you see your approach as differing from traditional inflation-tracking methods like those used by government agencies? Ishan Pandey: Oliver Rust: Truflation is so far ahead in measuring changes to inflation compared to government agencies, given that: Oliver Rust: Truflation makes the indexes available 30 times faster than current measurement tools and we report the indexes daily. Truflation leverages over 80 data providers and aggregates worldwide, resulting in multiple data sources with different methodologies covering each category, creating a more representative and balanced measurement tool. Truflation leverages census-level data, enabling us to access more than 40 million prices of goods and services compared to traditional indexes, which track roughly 100,000 items (varies by market) Truflation uses open-source algorithms to make the data more transparent and deliver the unfiltered truth via our Truf Network, a decentralized platform, and We measure the price changes from a consumer cost of living perspective. Truflation makes the indexes available 30 times faster than current measurement tools and we report the indexes daily. Truflation makes the indexes available 30 times faster than current measurement tools and we report the indexes daily. Truflation leverages over 80 data providers and aggregates worldwide, resulting in multiple data sources with different methodologies covering each category, creating a more representative and balanced measurement tool. Truflation leverages over 80 data providers and aggregates worldwide, resulting in multiple data sources with different methodologies covering each category, creating a more representative and balanced measurement tool. Truflation leverages census-level data, enabling us to access more than 40 million prices of goods and services compared to traditional indexes, which track roughly 100,000 items (varies by market) Truflation leverages census-level data, enabling us to access more than 40 million prices of goods and services compared to traditional indexes, which track roughly 100,000 items (varies by market) Truflation uses open-source algorithms to make the data more transparent and deliver the unfiltered truth via our Truf Network, a decentralized platform, and Truflation uses open-source algorithms to make the data more transparent and deliver the unfiltered truth via our Truf Network, a decentralized platform, and We measure the price changes from a consumer cost of living perspective. We measure the price changes from a consumer cost of living perspective. Ishan Pandey: Truflation recently launched a Hedge Index tracking Real World Assets (RWAs) to protect investments from inflation. Could you explain how it works and what its benefits are for investors? Ishan Pandey: Oliver Rust: The Truflation Hedge Index is an insurance policy offsetting any losses from other investments and inflation. This index tracks the price movements of the five core asset classes: Gold, Silver, WTI Crude Oil, Bitcoin and S&P 500. The index fluctuates based on the underlying constituents' movements, calculated using the price movements based on the weighting contribution of each component. We brought this index live for the crypto community to be able to trade against and offset inflation and diversify individual portfolios. Oliver Rust: Ishan Pandey: Truflation is known for using real-time data to track inflation. How do you ensure the accuracy and relevance of this data in an ever-changing economic landscape? What tools or technologies do you rely on to support this? Ishan Pandey: Oliver Rust: At Truflation we are used to handling census-level data and we have a 7 points quality control process that we have automated and deployed on the truf network that allows us to provide accurate data reflecting the price changes consumers are experiencing from a cost of living perspective. On top of this, leveraging a minimum of 3 data sources per index allows us to remove any dependency on one data set and provide more comprehensiveness to our indexes. Oliver Rust: Ishan Pandey: With your presence at India Blockchain Week (IBW), how does Truflation view the growing blockchain ecosystem in India? How do blockchain technology impact inflation tracking and financial services in this market? Ishan Pandey: Oliver Rust: Being at India Blockchain week is buzzing here and exciting. There is so much energy and positivity to make change for the good that the community and their actions can not energize you. I am just happy that we are going to be part of it. Everybody needs accurate, reliable and transparent data, and we look forward to bringing this to the market in India. Oliver Rust: Ishan Pandey: Blockchain regulation in India is still evolving. How does Truflation navigate regulatory challenges in a market like India? Ishan Pandey: Oliver Rust: Our focus is to provide information to the crypto community that they can leverage to create financial products from the economic and financial data that we provide through Truf Network. That is our focus at present. Oliver Rust: Ishan Pandey: At IBW, we see innovative blockchain projects' convergence. Are there any specific blockchain startups or institutions you are particularly excited to collaborate with in India? How can these partnerships enhance Truflation's product offerings? Ishan Pandey: Oliver Rust: Having been at IBW it is exciting just to see the amount of innovative ideas and entrepreneurs that are launching so many new products in the market. This ranges from the gaming industry all the way through to data applications. This myriad of new solutions being brought to the marketplace is so exciting. We are lucky to partner with Levitate, which has backed so many start-ups that we are excited and eager to get going! Oliver Rust: Don’t forget to like and share the story! Vested Interest Disclosure: This author is an independent contributor publishing via our business blogging program. HackerNoon has reviewed the report for quality, but the claims herein belong to the author. #DYOR Vested Interest Disclosure: This author is an independent contributor publishing via our business blogging program . HackerNoon has reviewed the report for quality, but the claims herein belong to the author. #DYOR Vested Interest Disclosure: business blogging program business blogging program

Innovation in Economic Data: Truflation's Oliver Rust on Real-Time Inflation Tracking

Інавацыі ў эканамічных дадзеных: Олівер Раст з Truflation аб адсочванні інфляцыі ў рэжыме рэальнага часу

Inovacija u ekonomskim podacima: Truflation Oliver Rust o praćenju inflacije u realnom vremenu

Innovación en datos económicos: Oliver Rust de Truflation habla sobre el seguimiento de la inflación en tiempo real

経済データのイノベーション: Truflation の Oliver Rust が語るリアルタイムのインフレ追跡

Иновации во економските податоци: Оливер Руст на Truflation за следење на инфлацијата во реално време

आर्थिक डेटामा नवीनता: वास्तविक-समय मुद्रास्फीति ट्र्याकिङमा ट्रुफ्लेसनको ओलिभर रस्ट

Qullqimanta Willakuykunapi musuqyachiy: Truflaciónpa Oliver Rust chiqap pacha Inflación qatipaypi

Инновации в экономических данных: Оливер Раст из Truflation об отслеживании инфляции в реальном времени

ආර්ථික දත්තවල නවෝත්පාදනය: තත්‍ය කාලීන උද්ධමනය ලුහුබැඳීම මත Truflation's Oliver Rust

Inovacioni në të dhënat ekonomike: Truflation's Oliver Rust në ndjekjen e inflacionit në kohë reale

Ubunifu katika Data ya Kiuchumi: Oliver Rust wa Truflation kwenye Ufuatiliaji wa Mfumuko wa Bei wa Wakati Halisi

Ukuqamba okusha kudatha yezomnotho: u-Oliver Rust we-Truflation ekulandeleleni ukwehla kwamandla emali ngesikhathi sangempela

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jXf04bhcjbg&embedable=true&transcript=true&long=true

Tech Monopolies and Internet Gatekeepers Transcript from John Oliver's Last Week Tonight

জন অলিভারের লাস্ট উইক টুনাইট থেকে টেক একচেটিয়া এবং ইন্টারনেট গেটকিপার ট্রান্সক্রিপ্ট

Tech-Monopole und Internet-Gatekeeper. Transkript aus John Olivers „Last Week Tonight“.

Transcripción de Monopolios tecnológicos y guardianes de Internet de Last Week Tonight de John Oliver

Monopoles technologiques et contrôleurs d'accès à Internet Transcription de Last Week Tonight de John Oliver

जॉन ओलिवर के लास्ट वीक टुनाइट से टेक मोनोपोलीज़ और इंटरनेट गेटकीपर्स ट्रांसक्रिप्ट

テクノロジー独占とインターネットゲートキーパー ジョン・オリバーの先週の今夜の転写

기술 독점과 인터넷 게이트키퍼 존 올리버의 오늘 밤 마지막 주에 대한 대본

Monopólios tecnológicos e guardiões da Internet Transcrição do livro Last Week Tonight de John Oliver

Технологические монополии и интернет-привратники Стенограмма выступления Джона Оливера на прошлой неделе сегодня вечером

Teknoloji Tekelleri ve İnternet Bekçileri John Oliver'ın Geçen Hafta Bu Geceki Konuşmasının Metni

Bản ghi chép về Độc quyền công nghệ và Người gác cổng Internet từ Tuần trước Tối nay của John Oliver

科技垄断和互联网看门人约翰奥利弗上周今晚的文字记录

Oliver Twist, by Charles Dickens is part of HackerNoon’s Book Blog Post series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here: . Chapter LIII: And Last [LINK TO TABLE OF LINK] CHAPTER LIII. AND LAST The fortunes of those who have figured in this tale are nearly closed. The little that remains to their historian to relate, is told in few and simple words. Before three months had passed, Rose Fleming and Harry Maylie were married in the village church which was henceforth to be the scene of the young clergyman’s labours; on the same day they entered into possession of their new and happy home. Mrs. Maylie took up her abode with her son and daughter-in-law, to enjoy, during the tranquil remainder of her days, the greatest felicity that age and worth can know—the contemplation of the happiness of those on whom the warmest affections and tenderest cares of a well-spent life, have been unceasingly bestowed. It appeared, on full and careful investigation, that if the wreck of property remaining in the custody of Monks (which had never prospered either in his hands or in those of his mother) were equally divided between himself and Oliver, it would yield, to each, little more than three thousand pounds. By the provisions of his father’s will, Oliver would have been entitled to the whole; but Mr. Brownlow, unwilling to deprive the elder son of the opportunity of retrieving his former vices and pursuing an honest career, proposed this mode of distribution, to which his young charge joyfully acceded. Monks, still bearing that assumed name, retired with his portion to a distant part of the New World; where, having quickly squandered it, he once more fell into his old courses, and, after undergoing a long confinement for some fresh act of fraud and knavery, at length sunk under an attack of his old disorder, and died in prison. As far from home, died the chief remaining members of his friend Fagin’s gang. Mr. Brownlow adopted Oliver as his son. Removing with him and the old housekeeper to within a mile of the parsonage-house, where his dear friends resided, he gratified the only remaining wish of Oliver’s warm and earnest heart, and thus linked together a little society, whose condition approached as nearly to one of perfect happiness as can ever be known in this changing world. Soon after the marriage of the young people, the worthy doctor returned to Chertsey, where, bereft of the presence of his old friends, he would have been discontented if his temperament had admitted of such a feeling; and would have turned quite peevish if he had known how. For two or three months, he contented himself with hinting that he feared the air began to disagree with him; then, finding that the place really no longer was, to him, what it had been, he settled his business on his assistant, took a bachelor’s cottage outside the village of which his young friend was pastor, and instantaneously recovered. Here he took to gardening, planting, fishing, carpentering, and various other pursuits of a similar kind: all undertaken with his characteristic impetuosity. In each and all he has since become famous throughout the neighborhood, as a most profound authority. Before his removal, he had managed to contract a strong friendship for Mr. Grimwig, which that eccentric gentleman cordially reciprocated. He is accordingly visited by Mr. Grimwig a great many times in the course of the year. On all such occasions, Mr. Grimwig plants, fishes, and carpenters, with great ardour; doing everything in a very singular and unprecedented manner, but always maintaining with his favourite asseveration, that his mode is the right one. On Sundays, he never fails to criticise the sermon to the young clergyman’s face: always informing Mr. Losberne, in strict confidence afterwards, that he considers it an excellent performance, but deems it as well not to say so. It is a standing and very favourite joke, for Mr. Brownlow to rally him on his old prophecy concerning Oliver, and to remind him of the night on which they sat with the watch between them, waiting his return; but Mr. Grimwig contends that he was right in the main, and, in proof thereof, remarks that Oliver did not come back after all; which always calls forth a laugh on his side, and increases his good humour. Mr. Noah Claypole: receiving a free pardon from the Crown in consequence of being admitted approver against Fagin: and considering his profession not altogether as safe a one as he could wish: was, for some little time, at a loss for the means of a livelihood, not burdened with too much work. After some consideration, he went into business as an informer, in which calling he realises a genteel subsistence. His plan is, to walk out once a week during church time attended by Charlotte in respectable attire. The lady faints away at the doors of charitable publicans, and the gentleman being accommodated with three-penny worth of brandy to restore her, lays an information next day, and pockets half the penalty. Sometimes Mr. Claypole faints himself, but the result is the same. Mr. and Mrs. Bumble, deprived of their situations, were gradually reduced to great indigence and misery, and finally became paupers in that very same workhouse in which they had once lorded it over others. Mr. Bumble has been heard to say, that in this reverse and degradation, he has not even spirits to be thankful for being separated from his wife. As to Mr. Giles and Brittles, they still remain in their old posts, although the former is bald, and the last-named boy quite grey. They sleep at the parsonage, but divide their attentions so equally among its inmates, and Oliver and Mr. Brownlow, and Mr. Losberne, that to this day the villagers have never been able to discover to which establishment they properly belong. Master Charles Bates, appalled by Sikes’s crime, fell into a train of reflection whether an honest life was not, after all, the best. Arriving at the conclusion that it certainly was, he turned his back upon the scenes of the past, resolved to amend it in some new sphere of action. He struggled hard, and suffered much, for some time; but, having a contented disposition, and a good purpose, succeeded in the end; and, from being a farmer’s drudge, and a carrier’s lad, he is now the merriest young grazier in all Northamptonshire. And now, the hand that traces these words, falters, as it approaches the conclusion of its task; and would weave, for a little longer space, the thread of these adventures. I would fain linger yet with a few of those among whom I have so long moved, and share their happiness by endeavouring to depict it. I would show Rose Maylie in all the bloom and grace of early womanhood, shedding on her secluded path in life soft and gentle light, that fell on all who trod it with her, and shone into their hearts. I would paint her the life and joy of the fire-side circle and the lively summer group; I would follow her through the sultry fields at noon, and hear the low tones of her sweet voice in the moonlit evening walk; I would watch her in all her goodness and charity abroad, and the smiling untiring discharge of domestic duties at home; I would paint her and her dead sister’s child happy in their love for one another, and passing whole hours together in picturing the friends whom they had so sadly lost; I would summon before me, once again, those joyous little faces that clustered round her knee, and listen to their merry prattle; I would recall the tones of that clear laugh, and conjure up the sympathising tear that glistened in the soft blue eye. These, and a thousand looks and smiles, and turns of thought and speech—I would fain recall them every one. How Mr. Brownlow went on, from day to day, filling the mind of his adopted child with stores of knowledge, and becoming attached to him, more and more, as his nature developed itself, and showed the thriving seeds of all he wished him to become—how he traced in him new traits of his early friend, that awakened in his own bosom old remembrances, melancholy and yet sweet and soothing—how the two orphans, tried by adversity, remembered its lessons in mercy to others, and mutual love, and fervent thanks to Him who had protected and preserved them—these are all matters which need not to be told. I have said that they were truly happy; and without strong affection and humanity of heart, and gratitude to that Being whose code is Mercy, and whose great attribute is Benevolence to all things that breathe, happiness can never be attained. Within the altar of the old village church there stands a white marble tablet, which bears as yet but one word: “AGNES.” There is no coffin in that tomb; and may it be many, many years, before another name is placed above it! But, if the spirits of the Dead ever come back to earth, to visit spots hallowed by the love—the love beyond the grave—of those whom they knew in life, I believe that the shade of Agnes sometimes hovers round that solemn nook. I believe it none the less because that nook is in a Church, and she was weak and erring. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved April 2022 from Dickens, Charles,1996. Oliver Twist. https://www.gutenberg.org/files/730/730-h/730-h.htm#chap53 This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

Oliver Twist: Chapter LIII

Oliver Twist, by Charles Dickens is part of HackerNoon’s Book Blog Post series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here: . Chapter LII: Fagin's Last Night Alive [LINK TO TABLE OF LINK] CHAPTER LII. FAGIN’S LAST NIGHT ALIVE The court was paved, from floor to roof, with human faces. Inquisitive and eager eyes peered from every inch of space. From the rail before the dock, away into the sharpest angle of the smallest corner in the galleries, all looks were fixed upon one man—Fagin. Before him and behind: above, below, on the right and on the left: he seemed to stand surrounded by a firmament, all bright with gleaming eyes. He stood there, in all this glare of living light, with one hand resting on the wooden slab before him, the other held to his ear, and his head thrust forward to enable him to catch with greater distinctness every word that fell from the presiding judge, who was delivering his charge to the jury. At times, he turned his eyes sharply upon them to observe the effect of the slightest featherweight in his favour; and when the points against him were stated with terrible distinctness, looked towards his counsel, in mute appeal that he would, even then, urge something in his behalf. Beyond these manifestations of anxiety, he stirred not hand or foot. He had scarcely moved since the trial began; and now that the judge ceased to speak, he still remained in the same strained attitude of close attention, with his gaze bent on him, as though he listened still. A slight bustle in the court, recalled him to himself. Looking round, he saw that the jurymen had turned together, to consider their verdict. As his eyes wandered to the gallery, he could see the people rising above each other to see his face: some hastily applying their glasses to their eyes: and others whispering their neighbours with looks expressive of abhorrence. A few there were, who seemed unmindful of him, and looked only to the jury, in impatient wonder how they could delay. But in no one face—not even among the women, of whom there were many there—could he read the faintest sympathy with himself, or any feeling but one of all-absorbing interest that he should be condemned. As he saw all this in one bewildered glance, the deathlike stillness came again, and looking back he saw that the jurymen had turned towards the judge. Hush! They only sought permission to retire. He looked, wistfully, into their faces, one by one when they passed out, as though to see which way the greater number leant; but that was fruitless. The jailer touched him on the shoulder. He followed mechanically to the end of the dock, and sat down on a chair. The man pointed it out, or he would not have seen it. He looked up into the gallery again. Some of the people were eating, and some fanning themselves with handkerchiefs; for the crowded place was very hot. There was one young man sketching his face in a little note-book. He wondered whether it was like, and looked on when the artist broke his pencil-point, and made another with his knife, as any idle spectator might have done. In the same way, when he turned his eyes towards the judge, his mind began to busy itself with the fashion of his dress, and what it cost, and how he put it on. There was an old fat gentleman on the bench, too, who had gone out, some half an hour before, and now come back. He wondered within himself whether this man had been to get his dinner, what he had had, and where he had had it; and pursued this train of careless thought until some new object caught his eye and roused another. Not that, all this time, his mind was, for an instant, free from one oppressive overwhelming sense of the grave that opened at his feet; it was ever present to him, but in a vague and general way, and he could not fix his thoughts upon it. Thus, even while he trembled, and turned burning hot at the idea of speedy death, he fell to counting the iron spikes before him, and wondering how the head of one had been broken off, and whether they would mend it, or leave it as it was. Then, he thought of all the horrors of the gallows and the scaffold—and stopped to watch a man sprinkling the floor to cool it—and then went on to think again. At length there was a cry of silence, and a breathless look from all towards the door. The jury returned, and passed him close. He could glean nothing from their faces; they might as well have been of stone. Perfect stillness ensued—not a rustle—not a breath—Guilty. The building rang with a tremendous shout, and another, and another, and then it echoed loud groans, that gathered strength as they swelled out, like angry thunder. It was a peal of joy from the populace outside, greeting the news that he would die on Monday. The noise subsided, and he was asked if he had anything to say why sentence of death should not be passed upon him. He had resumed his listening attitude, and looked intently at his questioner while the demand was made; but it was twice repeated before he seemed to hear it, and then he only muttered that he was an old man—an old man—and so, dropping into a whisper, was silent again. The judge assumed the black cap, and the prisoner still stood with the same air and gesture. A woman in the gallery, uttered some exclamation, called forth by this dread solemnity; he looked hastily up as if angry at the interruption, and bent forward yet more attentively. The address was solemn and impressive; the sentence fearful to hear. But he stood, like a marble figure, without the motion of a nerve. His haggard face was still thrust forward, his under-jaw hanging down, and his eyes staring out before him, when the jailer put his hand upon his arm, and beckoned him away. He gazed stupidly about him for an instant, and obeyed. They led him through a paved room under the court, where some prisoners were waiting till their turns came, and others were talking to their friends, who crowded round a grate which looked into the open yard. There was nobody there to speak to him; but, as he passed, the prisoners fell back to render him more visible to the people who were clinging to the bars: and they assailed him with opprobrious names, and screeched and hissed. He shook his fist, and would have spat upon them; but his conductors hurried him on, through a gloomy passage lighted by a few dim lamps, into the interior of the prison. Here, he was searched, that he might not have about him the means of anticipating the law; this ceremony performed, they led him to one of the condemned cells, and left him there—alone. He sat down on a stone bench opposite the door, which served for seat and bedstead; and casting his blood-shot eyes upon the ground, tried to collect his thoughts. After awhile, he began to remember a few disjointed fragments of what the judge had said: though it had seemed to him, at the time, that he could not hear a word. These gradually fell into their proper places, and by degrees suggested more: so that in a little time he had the whole, almost as it was delivered. To be hanged by the neck, till he was dead—that was the end. To be hanged by the neck till he was dead. As it came on very dark, he began to think of all the men he had known who had died upon the scaffold; some of them through his means. They rose up, in such quick succession, that he could hardly count them. He had seen some of them die,—and had joked too, because they died with prayers upon their lips. With what a rattling noise the drop went down; and how suddenly they changed, from strong and vigorous men to dangling heaps of clothes! Some of them might have inhabited that very cell—sat upon that very spot. It was very dark; why didn’t they bring a light? The cell had been built for many years. Scores of men must have passed their last hours there. It was like sitting in a vault strewn with dead bodies—the cap, the noose, the pinioned arms, the faces that he knew, even beneath that hideous veil.—Light, light! At length, when his hands were raw with beating against the heavy door and walls, two men appeared: one bearing a candle, which he thrust into an iron candlestick fixed against the wall: the other dragging in a mattress on which to pass the night; for the prisoner was to be left alone no more. Then came the night—dark, dismal, silent night. Other watchers are glad to hear this church-clock strike, for they tell of life and coming day. To him they brought despair. The boom of every iron bell came laden with the one, deep, hollow sound—Death. What availed the noise and bustle of cheerful morning, which penetrated even there, to him? It was another form of knell, with mockery added to the warning. The day passed off. Day? There was no day; it was gone as soon as come—and night came on again; night so long, and yet so short; long in its dreadful silence, and short in its fleeting hours. At one time he raved and blasphemed; and at another howled and tore his hair. Venerable men of his own persuasion had come to pray beside him, but he had driven them away with curses. They renewed their charitable efforts, and he beat them off. Saturday night. He had only one night more to live. And as he thought of this, the day broke—Sunday. It was not until the night of this last awful day, that a withering sense of his helpless, desperate state came in its full intensity upon his blighted soul; not that he had ever held any defined or positive hope of mercy, but that he had never been able to consider more than the dim probability of dying so soon. He had spoken little to either of the two men, who relieved each other in their attendance upon him; and they, for their parts, made no effort to rouse his attention. He had sat there, awake, but dreaming. Now, he started up, every minute, and with gasping mouth and burning skin, hurried to and fro, in such a paroxysm of fear and wrath that even they—used to such sights—recoiled from him with horror. He grew so terrible, at last, in all the tortures of his evil conscience, that one man could not bear to sit there, eyeing him alone; and so the two kept watch together. He cowered down upon his stone bed, and thought of the past. He had been wounded with some missiles from the crowd on the day of his capture, and his head was bandaged with a linen cloth. His red hair hung down upon his bloodless face; his beard was torn, and twisted into knots; his eyes shone with a terrible light; his unwashed flesh crackled with the fever that burnt him up. Eight—nine—then. If it was not a trick to frighten him, and those were the real hours treading on each other’s heels, where would he be, when they came round again! Eleven! Another struck, before the voice of the previous hour had ceased to vibrate. At eight, he would be the only mourner in his own funeral train; at eleven— Those dreadful walls of Newgate, which have hidden so much misery and such unspeakable anguish, not only from the eyes, but, too often, and too long, from the thoughts, of men, never held so dread a spectacle as that. The few who lingered as they passed, and wondered what the man was doing who was to be hanged to-morrow, would have slept but ill that night, if they could have seen him. From early in the evening until nearly midnight, little groups of two and three presented themselves at the lodge-gate, and inquired, with anxious faces, whether any reprieve had been received. These being answered in the negative, communicated the welcome intelligence to clusters in the street, who pointed out to one another the door from which he must come out, and showed where the scaffold would be built, and, walking with unwilling steps away, turned back to conjure up the scene. By degrees they fell off, one by one; and, for an hour, in the dead of night, the street was left to solitude and darkness. The space before the prison was cleared, and a few strong barriers, painted black, had been already thrown across the road to break the pressure of the expected crowd, when Mr. Brownlow and Oliver appeared at the wicket, and presented an order of admission to the prisoner, signed by one of the sheriffs. They were immediately admitted into the lodge. “Is the young gentleman to come too, sir?” said the man whose duty it was to conduct them. “It’s not a sight for children, sir.” “It is not indeed, my friend,” rejoined Mr. Brownlow; “but my business with this man is intimately connected with him; and as this child has seen him in the full career of his success and villainy, I think it as well—even at the cost of some pain and fear—that he should see him now.” These few words had been said apart, so as to be inaudible to Oliver. The man touched his hat; and glancing at Oliver with some curiousity, opened another gate, opposite to that by which they had entered, and led them on, through dark and winding ways, towards the cells. “This,” said the man, stopping in a gloomy passage where a couple of workmen were making some preparations in profound silence—“this is the place he passes through. If you step this way, you can see the door he goes out at.” He led them into a stone kitchen, fitted with coppers for dressing the prison food, and pointed to a door. There was an open grating above it, through which came the sound of men’s voices, mingled with the noise of hammering, and the throwing down of boards. They were putting up the scaffold. From this place, they passed through several strong gates, opened by other turnkeys from the inner side; and, having entered an open yard, ascended a flight of narrow steps, and came into a passage with a row of strong doors on the left hand. Motioning them to remain where they were, the turnkey knocked at one of these with his bunch of keys. The two attendants, after a little whispering, came out into the passage, stretching themselves as if glad of the temporary relief, and motioned the visitors to follow the jailer into the cell. They did so. The condemned criminal was seated on his bed, rocking himself from side to side, with a countenance more like that of a snared beast than the face of a man. His mind was evidently wandering to his old life, for he continued to mutter, without appearing conscious of their presence otherwise than as a part of his vision. “Good boy, Charley—well done—” he mumbled. “Oliver, too, ha! ha! ha! Oliver too—quite the gentleman now—quite the—take that boy away to bed!” The jailer took the disengaged hand of Oliver; and, whispering him not to be alarmed, looked on without speaking. “Take him away to bed!” cried Fagin. “Do you hear me, some of you? He has been the—the—somehow the cause of all this. It’s worth the money to bring him up to it—Bolter’s throat, Bill; never mind the girl—Bolter’s throat as deep as you can cut. Saw his head off!” “Fagin,” said the jailer. “That’s me!” cried the Jew, falling instantly, into the attitude of listening he had assumed upon his trial. “An old man, my Lord; a very old, old man!” “Here,” said the turnkey, laying his hand upon his breast to keep him down. “Here’s somebody wants to see you, to ask you some questions, I suppose. Fagin, Fagin! Are you a man?” “I shan’t be one long,” he replied, looking up with a face retaining no human expression but rage and terror. “Strike them all dead! What right have they to butcher me?” As he spoke he caught sight of Oliver and Mr. Brownlow. Shrinking to the furthest corner of the seat, he demanded to know what they wanted there. “Steady,” said the turnkey, still holding him down. “Now, sir, tell him what you want. Quick, if you please, for he grows worse as the time gets on.” “You have some papers,” said Mr. Brownlow advancing, “which were placed in your hands, for better security, by a man called Monks.” “It’s all a lie together,” replied Fagin. “I haven’t one—not one.” “For the love of God,” said Mr. Brownlow solemnly, “do not say that now, upon the very verge of death; but tell me where they are. You know that Sikes is dead; that Monks has confessed; that there is no hope of any further gain. Where are those papers?” “Oliver,” cried Fagin, beckoning to him. “Here, here! Let me whisper to you.” “I am not afraid,” said Oliver in a low voice, as he relinquished Mr. Brownlow’s hand. “The papers,” said Fagin, drawing Oliver towards him, “are in a canvas bag, in a hole a little way up the chimney in the top front-room. I want to talk to you, my dear. I want to talk to you.” “Yes, yes,” returned Oliver. “Let me say a prayer. Do! Let me say one prayer. Say only one, upon your knees, with me, and we will talk till morning.” “Outside, outside,” replied Fagin, pushing the boy before him towards the door, and looking vacantly over his head. “Say I’ve gone to sleep—they’ll believe you. You can get me out, if you take me so. Now then, now then!” “Oh! God forgive this wretched man!” cried the boy with a burst of tears. “That’s right, that’s right,” said Fagin. “That’ll help us on. This door first. If I shake and tremble, as we pass the gallows, don’t you mind, but hurry on. Now, now, now!” “Have you nothing else to ask him, sir?” inquired the turnkey. “No other question,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “If I hoped we could recall him to a sense of his position—” “Nothing will do that, sir,” replied the man, shaking his head. “You had better leave him.” The door of the cell opened, and the attendants returned. “Press on, press on,” cried Fagin. “Softly, but not so slow. Faster, faster!” The men laid hands upon him, and disengaging Oliver from his grasp, held him back. He struggled with the power of desperation, for an instant; and then sent up cry upon cry that penetrated even those massive walls, and rang in their ears until they reached the open yard. It was some time before they left the prison. Oliver nearly swooned after this frightful scene, and was so weak that for an hour or more, he had not the strength to walk. Day was dawning when they again emerged. A great multitude had already assembled; the windows were filled with people, smoking and playing cards to beguile the time; the crowd were pushing, quarrelling, joking. Everything told of life and animation, but one dark cluster of objects in the centre of all—the black stage, the cross-beam, the rope, and all the hideous apparatus of death. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved April 2022 from Dickens, Charles,1996. Oliver Twist. https://www.gutenberg.org/files/730/730-h/730-h.htm#chap52 This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

Oliver Twist: Chapter LII

Oliver Twist: Chapter LI

Oliver Twist: Chapter L

Oliver Twist: Chapter XLIX

Oliver Twist: Chapter XLVIII

Oliver Twist, by Charles Dickens is part of HackerNoon’s Book Blog Post series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here: Chapter XLVII: Fatal Consequences [LINK TO TABLE OF LINK]. CHAPTER XLVII. FATAL CONSEQUENCES It was nearly two hours before day-break; that time which in the autumn of the year, may be truly called the dead of night; when the streets are silent and deserted; when even sounds appear to slumber, and profligacy and riot have staggered home to dream; it was at this still and silent hour, that Fagin sat watching in his old lair, with face so distorted and pale, and eyes so red and blood-shot, that he looked less like a man, than like some hideous phantom, moist from the grave, and worried by an evil spirit. He sat crouching over a cold hearth, wrapped in an old torn coverlet, with his face turned towards a wasting candle that stood upon a table by his side. His right hand was raised to his lips, and as, absorbed in thought, he hit his long black nails, he disclosed among his toothless gums a few such fangs as should have been a dog’s or rat’s. Stretched upon a mattress on the floor, lay Noah Claypole, fast asleep. Towards him the old man sometimes directed his eyes for an instant, and then brought them back again to the candle; which with a long-burnt wick drooping almost double, and hot grease falling down in clots upon the table, plainly showed that his thoughts were busy elsewhere. Indeed they were. Mortification at the overthrow of his notable scheme; hatred of the girl who had dared to palter with strangers; and utter distrust of the sincerity of her refusal to yield him up; bitter disappointment at the loss of his revenge on Sikes; the fear of detection, and ruin, and death; and a fierce and deadly rage kindled by all; these were the passionate considerations which, following close upon each other with rapid and ceaseless whirl, shot through the brain of Fagin, as every evil thought and blackest purpose lay working at his heart. He sat without changing his attitude in the least, or appearing to take the smallest heed of time, until his quick ear seemed to be attracted by a footstep in the street. “At last,” he muttered, wiping his dry and fevered mouth. “At last!” The bell rang gently as he spoke. He crept upstairs to the door, and presently returned accompanied by a man muffled to the chin, who carried a bundle under one arm. Sitting down and throwing back his outer coat, the man displayed the burly frame of Sikes. “There!” he said, laying the bundle on the table. “Take care of that, and do the most you can with it. It’s been trouble enough to get; I thought I should have been here, three hours ago.” Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard, sat down again without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the robber, for an instant, during this action; and now that they sat over against each other, face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look of real affright. “Wot now?” cried Sikes. “Wot do you look at a man so for?” Fagin raised his right hand, and shook his trembling forefinger in the air; but his passion was so great, that the power of speech was for the moment gone. “Damme!” said Sikes, feeling in his breast with a look of alarm. “He’s gone mad. I must look to myself here.” “No, no,” rejoined Fagin, finding his voice. “It’s not—you’re not the person, Bill. I’ve no—no fault to find with you.” “Oh, you haven’t, haven’t you?” said Sikes, looking sternly at him, and ostentatiously passing a pistol into a more convenient pocket. “That’s lucky—for one of us. Which one that is, don’t matter.” “I’ve got that to tell you, Bill,” said Fagin, drawing his chair nearer, “will make you worse than me.” “Aye?” returned the robber with an incredulous air. “Tell away! Look sharp, or Nance will think I’m lost.” “Lost!” cried Fagin. “She has pretty well settled that, in her own mind, already.” Sikes looked with an aspect of great perplexity into the Jew’s face, and reading no satisfactory explanation of the riddle there, clenched his coat collar in his huge hand and shook him soundly. “Speak, will you!” he said; “or if you don’t, it shall be for want of breath. Open your mouth and say wot you’ve got to say in plain words. Out with it, you thundering old cur, out with it!” “Suppose that lad that’s laying there—” Fagin began. Sikes turned round to where Noah was sleeping, as if he had not previously observed him. “Well!” he said, resuming his former position. “Suppose that lad,” pursued Fagin, “was to peach—to blow upon us all—first seeking out the right folks for the purpose, and then having a meeting with ’em in the street to paint our likenesses, describe every mark that they might know us by, and the crib where we might be most easily taken. Suppose he was to do all this, and besides to blow upon a plant we’ve all been in, more or less—of his own fancy; not grabbed, trapped, tried, earwigged by the parson and brought to it on bread and water,—but of his own fancy; to please his own taste; stealing out at nights to find those most interested against us, and peaching to them. Do you hear me?” cried the Jew, his eyes flashing with rage. “Suppose he did all this, what then?” “What then!” replied Sikes; with a tremendous oath. “If he was left alive till I came, I’d grind his skull under the iron heel of my boot into as many grains as there are hairs upon his head.” “What if I did it!” cried Fagin almost in a yell. “I, that knows so much, and could hang so many besides myself!” “I don’t know,” replied Sikes, clenching his teeth and turning white at the mere suggestion. “I’d do something in the jail that ’ud get me put in irons; and if I was tried along with you, I’d fall upon you with them in the open court, and beat your brains out afore the people. I should have such strength,” muttered the robber, poising his brawny arm, “that I could smash your head as if a loaded waggon had gone over it.” “You would?” “Would I!” said the housebreaker. “Try me.” “If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or—” “I don’t care who,” replied Sikes impatiently. “Whoever it was, I’d serve them the same.” Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant forward in his chair: looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in. “Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!” said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. “He’s tired—tired with watching for her so long,—watching for her, Bill.” “Wot d’ye mean?” asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him. “Tell me that again—once again, just for him to hear,” said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke. “Tell yer what?” asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. “That about— Nancy,” said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. “You followed her?” “Yes.” “To London Bridge?” “Yes.” “Where she met two people.” “So she did.” “A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did—and to describe him, which she did—and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did—and where it could be best watched from, which she did—and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat, without a murmur—she did—did she not?” cried Fagin, half mad with fury. “All right,” replied Noah, scratching his head. “That’s just what it was!” “What did they say, about last Sunday?” “About last Sunday!” replied Noah, considering. “Why I told yer that before.” “Again. Tell it again!” cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips. “They asked her,” said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception who Sikes was, “they asked her why she didn’t come, last Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn’t.” “Why—why? Tell him that.” “Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them of before,” replied Noah. “What more of him?” cried Fagin. “What more of the man she had told them of before? Tell him that, tell him that.” “Why, that she couldn’t very easily get out of doors unless he knew where she was going to,” said Noah; “and so the first time she went to see the lady, she—ha! ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said it, that it did—she gave him a drink of laudanum.” “Hell’s fire!” cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from the Jew. “Let me go!” Flinging the old man from him, he rushed from the room, and darted, wildly and furiously, up the stairs. “Bill, Bill!” cried Fagin, following him hastily. “A word. Only a word.” The word would not have been exchanged, but that the housebreaker was unable to open the door: on which he was expending fruitless oaths and violence, when the Jew came panting up. “Let me out,” said Sikes. “Don’t speak to me; it’s not safe. Let me out, I say!” “Hear me speak a word,” rejoined Fagin, laying his hand upon the lock. “You won’t be—” “Well,” replied the other. “You won’t be—too—violent, Bill?” The day was breaking, and there was light enough for the men to see each other’s faces. They exchanged one brief glance; there was a fire in the eyes of both, which could not be mistaken. “I mean,” said Fagin, showing that he felt all disguise was now useless, “not too violent for safety. Be crafty, Bill, and not too bold.” Sikes made no reply; but, pulling open the door, of which Fagin had turned the lock, dashed into the silent streets. Without one pause, or moment’s consideration; without once turning his head to the right or left, or raising his eyes to the sky, or lowering them to the ground, but looking straight before him with savage resolution: his teeth so tightly compressed that the strained jaw seemed starting through his skin; the robber held on his headlong course, nor muttered a word, nor relaxed a muscle, until he reached his own door. He opened it, softly, with a key; strode lightly up the stairs; and entering his own room, double-locked the door, and lifting a heavy table against it, drew back the curtain of the bed. The girl was lying, half-dressed, upon it. He had roused her from her sleep, for she raised herself with a hurried and startled look. “Get up!” said the man. “It is you, Bill!” said the girl, with an expression of pleasure at his return. “It is,” was the reply. “Get up.” There was a candle burning, but the man hastily drew it from the candlestick, and hurled it under the grate. Seeing the faint light of early day without, the girl rose to undraw the curtain. “Let it be,” said Sikes, thrusting his hand before her. “There’s enough light for wot I’ve got to do.” “Bill,” said the girl, in the low voice of alarm, “why do you look like that at me!” The robber sat regarding her, for a few seconds, with dilated nostrils and heaving breast; and then, grasping her by the head and throat, dragged her into the middle of the room, and looking once towards the door, placed his heavy hand upon her mouth. “Bill, Bill!” gasped the girl, wrestling with the strength of mortal fear,—“I—I won’t scream or cry—not once—hear me—speak to me—tell me what I have done!” “You know, you she devil!” returned the robber, suppressing his breath. “You were watched to-night; every word you said was heard.” “Then spare my life for the love of Heaven, as I spared yours,” rejoined the girl, clinging to him. “Bill, dear Bill, you cannot have the heart to kill me. Oh! think of all I have given up, only this one night, for you. You shall have time to think, and save yourself this crime; I will not loose my hold, you cannot throw me off. Bill, Bill, for dear God’s sake, for your own, for mine, stop before you spill my blood! I have been true to you, upon my guilty soul I have!” The man struggled violently, to release his arms; but those of the girl were clasped round his, and tear her as he would, he could not tear them away. “Bill,” cried the girl, striving to lay her head upon his breast, “the gentleman and that dear lady, told me to-night of a home in some foreign country where I could end my days in solitude and peace. Let me see them again, and beg them, on my knees, to show the same mercy and goodness to you; and let us both leave this dreadful place, and far apart lead better lives, and forget how we have lived, except in prayers, and never see each other more. It is never too late to repent. They told me so—I feel it now—but we must have time—a little, little time!” The housebreaker freed one arm, and grasped his pistol. The certainty of immediate detection if he fired, flashed across his mind even in the midst of his fury; and he beat it twice with all the force he could summon, upon the upturned face that almost touched his own. She staggered and fell: nearly blinded with the blood that rained down from a deep gash in her forehead; but raising herself, with difficulty, on her knees, drew from her bosom a white handkerchief—Rose Maylie’s own—and holding it up, in her folded hands, as high towards Heaven as her feeble strength would allow, breathed one prayer for mercy to her Maker. It was a ghastly figure to look upon. The murderer staggering backward to the wall, and shutting out the sight with his hand, seized a heavy club and struck her down. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved April 2022 from Dickens, Charles,1996. Oliver Twist. https://www.gutenberg.org/files/730/730-h/730-h.htm#chap47 This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

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