Jonathan smiled contemptuously. His literary instincts began to stir. " "What kind?" "Dickens, Hugo. ‘So it is that you have made Jacques betray me. You'll find those young ladies extremely agreeable acquaintances. "You'd have hit it off better if you'd called her The Sow. She made me over. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage.
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