Don't lay it all to the boy. He moaned. He came to her and stood before her, waiting, the morning light dazzling his eyes. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. Opening the trap-door, he then descended to the vaults —searched each cell, and every nook and corner separately. “His love-making,” she remarked, “struck me as unconvincing. Still, my tutor was a highly educated scholar—my father.
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