But Jonathan, fixing a terrible look upon him, cried. Most of the time, he was hunting and he returned at night. Surely Capes was different. With the last glimmer of decency he had sent the daughter to his sister. "You shall hear," returned Jonathan. "If any one's to blame, it's me. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. He appeared to be a stranger to the prisoner, and the sole motive of his visit, curiosity. “Great!” Cathy squealed.
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