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"If that sickly brat lives to be a man," continued Jonathan, rising, "I'll hang him upon the same tree as his father. She turned the gas up in her little sitting-room, and sank wearily into an easy chair. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. ‘There’s no controlling you, is there?’ He held up his hands. The future was not so black. ‘Yes, miss. Her recent attitude towards him was undoubtedly a pose.
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