" "It matters not who I am," replied Jonathan, taking the money. She had taken care he should have this momentous talk with her on a garden-seat commanded by the windows of the house. It's certain. The prison gates were besieged like the entrance of a booth at a fair; and the Condemned Hold where he was confined, and to which visitors were admitted at the moderate rate of a guinea a-head, had quite the appearance of a showroom. It was as much accident as anything, but she had killed him. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. “But frankly, I mean to fight this through if I possibly can.
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