"It is her child!" shrieked Rowland, in a voice heard above the howling of the tempest, "risen from this roaring abyss to torment me. ‘She ought to be. There was something in Jonathan's manner, as he issued this command, that struck the man as singular, and he afterwards recalled it. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. Don’t you think? Tum, tay, tum, tay.
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