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She was a trained being—trained by an implacable mother to one end. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. "To-night it is their turn," said Jonathan, binding up his wounded fingers with a handkerchief. “Why?” “I still love you. The young man entered into a lively little war of words with a yellow-haired young person near the door.
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