It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. He felt he had raised a storm which it would be very difficult, if not impossible, to allay. "To-night it is their turn," said Jonathan, binding up his wounded fingers with a handkerchief. But was that enough? Dim, formless suspicions of something more vital wandered about his mind. “No, John, you won’t understand. But stand by and hear such things said about my late mistress’s daughter, I won’t.
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