“My dear friend,” she laughed, “not so tragic, if you please. "You will spare the officers a labour then," rejoined Jonathan. “Are you sorry you waited, aunt?” she said. His horse, which had apparently gone to sleep, preferred to remain where he was. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music.
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