There was the stile on which Jonathan had sat, and he recollected distinctly the effect of his mocking glance— how it had hardened his heart against his mother's prayer. Pity you aren’t under my command. ” A dull flush burned upon his cheeks. “I shouldn’t have waited,” she said. ‘That is good. Forgive me. I asked you to go. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. “I knew,” she said, in a low despairing tone, “that people would talk.
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