” “I am staying,” she answered coolly, “at a small boarding-house near Russell Square. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. Ain't he, Madam?'" "He is, indeed," replied the widow, fervently; "more—much more than that. " "Damnation!" cried Jonathan, stamping his foot with uncontrollable rage. I must leave England to-night. .
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