“There is this absurd craving for Mr. Earles. When her shock and the headache subsided, and she remembered that she had been reading the letter when Gosse had accosted her, she looked for it in vain. Come up stairs, and take a glass of brandy. "Devil!" cried the widow, catching his arm, and gazing with frantic eagerness in his face, "how many years will you give my son before you execute your terrible threat?" "NINE!" answered Jonathan sternly. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. A small handgun bobbed at the end of it, aimed at Sheila. ‘That is what she wants, is it?’ ‘Do you blame her?’ he said stiffly.
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