” “Why did you tell me? I thought—I thought we were going to be friends. Outside the door stood one of the soldiers. . ’ ‘That is what you think? Let us try!’ ‘Don’t be idiotic!’ She was backing from him, reaching through one of the slits she had carefully manufactured in her petticoat. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. She saw now that it was not a dissipated face; it was as smooth and unlined as polished marble, which at present it resembled. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. . "I am twenty," said the girl. "It's the boy's death-warrant," observed Jonathan, with a sinister smile. She nursed at his neck as he peacefully slumbered through being killed.
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