There was the stile on which Jonathan had sat, and he recollected distinctly the effect of his mocking glance— how it had hardened his heart against his mother's prayer. He was leaning against a window frame, his hat in his hand. “Fearful old fogey! I can’t imagine any sister of yours putting up with him for a moment. The stags and oxen and things all have to fight for us, everywhere. "Don't disturb yourself," continued the other, nowise disconcerted by the rebuke.
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