"It's the boy's death-warrant," observed Jonathan, with a sinister smile. ‘Silence,’ he warned again, with a prod of the dagger at her heart. “I was never so clear in all my life as I have been in this business. The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. I have written, called—of what avail is anything—against that look. Having disposed of his steed and swallowed a glass of brandy, without taking any other refreshment, he threw himself on a couch, where he sank at once into a heavy slumber.
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