"At least I'll try," replied Jonathan, sarcastically. “But your hair,” he gasped. . Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. I asked him—to take me away. She sank upon her knees and unbuttoned his coat. Taking the opposite course from that which he had hitherto pursued when it has been necessary to attend him in his visits to the lower part of his premises, he struck into a narrow passage on the right, which he tracked till he came to a small door, like the approach to a vault. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery.
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