"Well—well," grumbled Jonathan, "I suppose I must be content. No doubt he knew enough of his world to recognise that he stood little chance against the word of a major of militia. “Damned Rascal!” he said. Goodbye. He sat alone in his brother’s old car night after night that summer, staring blankly at the red sky beyond the abandoned farmhouse where she had once shown him her secrets. How men suffer for the foolish things they do!" "Ay to that. . And, if it had not been for a taste for plotting, which was continually getting him into scrapes, he might have been accounted a respectable member of society.
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