On their return, the jailers raised up Jonathan, who was weltering in his blood, and who appeared to be dying. “How will you live?” she appealed. " "That is your fault, none of mine. He thought he heard a scraping sound as he turned the handle. She trembled; but she did not know why. He continued to do this for the rest of the evening intermittently, in and out, among other topics. He hadn't gambled or played the horses or hit the booze back there in little old New York….
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