"Whose child can this be?" "How the devil should I know!" replied Jonathan gruffly. But it is that I have a very bad temper, you understand. It had been part of her wedding trousseau, a gift from her family to his. She could not see what occurred, though she guessed it; but she saw Jonathan's devilish triumphing glance, and read in it,—"Your son has committed a robbery—here—in these holy walls—he is mine—mine for ever!" She uttered a loud scream, and fainted. It was too good to be true. Stanley came home at a quarter to six—an earlier train by fifteen minutes than he affected—his sister met him in the hall with a hushed expression. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony. " "What has he done?" "What did he have to drink over here last night?" "Not even water.
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