"We shall meet again ere long, my son," cried Mrs. Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. "All's over," muttered Jonathan. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. Moreoever, it had cost her a whipping and several days’ imprisonment in her cell on bread and water. Lucy looked at the stains on the threadbare carpeting to distract herself, embarrassed to her core. “It is hateful—diabolical!” he exclaimed.
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