"Damnation!" exclaimed one of the leaders of the party in a furious tone, snatching a torch from an attendant, and throwing its light full upon the face of the carpenter; "this is not the villain, Sir Cecil. We've got to make him take up the harp of life and go twanging it again. Spurling," said Jonathan, who overheard the whisper, "you owe your situation to me. She did not forge a note. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. I asked him why, and he hadn’t a reason.
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