I’ve never had these crying fits before. “Cheveney!” she repeated. But how long would she last, withering away to a desiccated pile of skin and bone? Round and round she would go. "To-night it is their turn," said Jonathan, binding up his wounded fingers with a handkerchief. She was to have fifteen pounds, and no more. Do you know, I am beginning to believe that we only exist nowadays by the tolerance of these millionaire tradesmen.
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