She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. " "Whom do you mean?" demanded Jackson. She can be of use to me yet. I leaned over and looked at him—he was quite still. “There is no—Good God!” he exclaimed. "A friend," replied Jonathan, uncocking the pistol, and placing it in his pocket.
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