It could not be she who had done this. . Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. "Oh! that I could live to see it," gasped Jonathan. For a while he threatened her. The Becks were the best foster family that she had ever had. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. Advancing to the middle of the chamber, he halted, drew himself up, and fixed his dark, expressive eyes, on Thames Darrell.
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