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 Poor Trim! quoth my uncle Toby. My father went on.]

"—Consider the nature of the posture in which he now lies stretch'd,—what exquisite torture he endures by it!—'Tis all nature can bear!—Good God! See how it keeps his weary soul hanging upon his trembling lips,—willing to take its leave,—but not suffered to depart!—Behold the unhappy wretch led back to his cell!"—[Then, thank God, however, quoth Trim, they have not killed him]—"See him dragg'd out of it again to meet the flames, and the insults in his last agonies, which this principle,—this principle, that there can be religion without mercy, has prepared for him."—[Then, thank God,—he is dead, quoth Trim,—he is