She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. "As you please, Sir Rowland," returned Jonathan, with affected indifference; "but I'm not going to hunt the deer for another to eat the ven'son, depend on 't. "Is she returned!" "Y—e—s, Sir Rowland," stammered Charcam. It slipped out—as did that “she”. I'll keep it for your sake. He was tender with her as he had not been in years. She resolved not to allow him or her hunger detract from the performance at hand, as it would be a special one, an evening to be remembered in the gray days to follow like a precious jewel. "Hell-hounds!" he cried; "release me!" At the same moment, Quilt Arnold rushed forward with such haste, that, stumbling over William Morgan, he precipitated him into the grave.
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