Fortescue raised his eyebrows and assumed a light-comedy expression. "Devil!" cried the widow, catching his arm, and gazing with frantic eagerness in his face, "how many years will you give my son before you execute your terrible threat?" "NINE!" answered Jonathan sternly. Their chit-chat stopped when they reached the bench. “How odd that I should almost spring into your arms just on my doorstep!” she remarked gaily. I’m going to tell you things plainly.
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