It is queer how ideas pop into one's head. "Search him and iron him afresh;" commanded Jonathan. Mother! do you know what you do? Would you sell yourself to this fiend?" "I would sell myself, body and soul, to save you," rejoined his mother, bursting from his grasp. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. She warmed to him fast, her anger was much harder to carry than the pleasant everyday neutrality of affection. .
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