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On their return, the jailers raised up Jonathan, who was weltering in his blood, and who appeared to be dying. He put down his hat and umbrella, rested his hands on his hips, and regarded Ann Veronica firmly. There was none. Roused by the bell tolling for evening service, Jack left the house. It was horrible, but what could she do? She meant to live her own life, and he meant, with contempt and insults, to prevent her. “One doesn’t wait,” said Ann Veronica.
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