Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. He glanced out of the window, looked back at the major and grasped the handle of the door. “You poor child!” he said; “don’t you see the infinite folly of these proceedings? Think! Think of the love and affection you abandon! Think of your aunt, a second mother to you. On their return, the jailers raised up Jonathan, who was weltering in his blood, and who appeared to be dying.
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