There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell’s manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. She felt his erection against her naked thigh. After some time, the scuffle grew more and more distant, until nothing could be heard. Had he had the child to think of, he might have recovered from his grief at Mary’s death. 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. "Who knows but this key may open a golden lock one of these days?" And, picking it up, he thrust it into his pocket.
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