That’s why he was so annoyed, you know. "Devil!" cried the widow, catching his arm, and gazing with frantic eagerness in his face, "how many years will you give my son before you execute your terrible threat?" "NINE!" answered Jonathan sternly. He swore when I tried to get it out with the ladle, and told me what it said. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. “You poor child!” he said; “don’t you see the infinite folly of these proceedings? Think! Think of the love and affection you abandon! Think of your aunt, a second mother to you.
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