Jonathan, however, still lingered. It was Annabel’s. It's a thousand pities to hang so pretty a fellow. The old lady clearly read his state of mind, for the apparently irrepressible dimple peeped out. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. The fire still burned brightly. I dare not reflect upon the effect that her son's fate,—if the efforts to save him are ineffectual,—may have upon her enfeebled frame, and still worse upon her mind. Youth! You denied me even that," said Ruth, her glance now flashing to her father. There was a black fear in his heart. Without betraying the slightest confusion, or making a single remark, he quietly resumed his seat.
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