I just don’t know where to start. ’ Martha looked up, belligerence in her tone. 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. He was standing by, rating her ladyship,—who can scarcely stir from the sofa,—while I was packing up her jewels in the case, and I observed that she tried to hide a small casket from him. “Leave them!” He yelled. “Not a bit. I could not keep away any longer.
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