“And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. "It's the skull of a rebel," said Jonathan, with marked emphasis on the word, "blown by the wind from a spike on the bridge above us. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. "Jack!" she cried, raising her head. “Anna,” she moaned, “I am a jealous, ungrateful woman.
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