There was the stile on which Jonathan had sat, and he recollected distinctly the effect of his mocking glance— how it had hardened his heart against his mother's prayer. He wondered if these abnormal mental activities presaged illness. She sat down awkwardly and helplessly on one of the little stools by her table and covered her face with her hands. It is most uncomfortable for every one concerned. But she did not know what he knew, that it would always be rolling up, enlivened by suggestion, no matter how trifling. While he was stirring his tea, she ran and fetched the comb.
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