"'Sblood!" cried Jonathan, who had listened to the foregoing conversation with angry wonder, "I've been nicely done here. You don’t know what you’re saying, and I hope you never will. There was a murmur or two among the watchers on the bench, but no one ventured to intervene again. ’ ‘Dear me. Love lives on a higher plane. Holding down the light, he perceived that the wounded man had risen to the surface, and was trying to clamber up the slippery sides of the well.
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