"So it appears," replied Marvel. She did not question or analyze the craving; she took the plunge joyously. Come along, master. Away up on the hillside was the little country railway station. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. “You ass and imbecile, Ann Veronica! You female cad! Cad! Cad!.
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