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Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. Upon this island whither he was bound there would be no diversions, breathing spells; the battle would be constant. 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. “I’ve got—I have to tell you this to make myself clear—a streak of ardent animal in my composition. .
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