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 couple of centinels, inasmuch as the construction of them was a curve-line approximating to a cycloid,—if not a cycloid itself.

My uncle Toby understood the nature of a parabola as well as any man in England,—but was not quite such a master of the cycloid;—he talked however about it every day;—the bridge went not forwards.—We'll ask somebody about it, cried my uncle Toby to Trim.

Trim came in and told my father, that Dr. Slop was in the kitchen, and busy in making a bridge,—my uncle Toby,—the affair of the jack-boots having just then raised a train of military ideas in his brain,—took it in-