"Because—because I'm always distrustful of a priest," rejoined Jonathan. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. The elastic spirits of youth resumed their sway; and, before the coach stopped, his tears had ceased to flow. Yet you catch her eye—you can’t seem to escape from it. “I am going,” she said grimly, with three hairpins in her mouth.
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