"Well—well," grumbled Jonathan, "I suppose I must be content. "My God! will you see your child strangled before your eyes, and not so much as scream for help?" said Wood, staring at the widow with a look of surprise and horror. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. There’s no family uniting instinct, anyhow; it’s habit and sentiment and material convenience hold families together after adolescence. "But we must be getting along if we are to lunch in the tower of the water-clock.
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