"I have no sympathy," replied Prudence, "with a man who deliberately fuddles himself with strong drink. “It was,” she admitted. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. ’ She turned quickly away that her feelings might not be obvious to Lucy and her great-aunt. “Yeah. ‘I wish you joy of the wench. Winifred, accordingly, left the room, and a servant being despatched to the nearest tavern, soon afterwards returned with a crown bowl of the ambrosian fluid. But Jonathan was not to be deterred.
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