“Nigel, Nigel,” she cried. A granddaughter of mine!’ The idiocy of this notion stuck in his craw and he could think of nothing else for a moment. But just as they were about to place him on the ground, he burst from their hold, and made a desperate spring at Jonathan, who was standing with his arms folded near the door watching the scene. A vast indifference settled down upon him. The darkness was almost palpable; and the wind which, hitherto, had been blowing in gusts, was suddenly lulled. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill.
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