There was the stile on which Jonathan had sat, and he recollected distinctly the effect of his mocking glance— how it had hardened his heart against his mother's prayer. McClintock would bang his fist upon the table. There lay upon this stand a book bound in limp black leather—the Holy Bible. ‘Damnation!’ Confused, he released her, and in an instant she had darted away and was running down the garden.
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