"No, no!" With a gesture, fierce and intolerant, she seized the Bible and thrust it out of sight, into the drawer. "On my soul, yes," rejoined Jonathan. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate. She enjoyed preparing the evening meals, the smells of potatoes roasting in the oven, the stink of onions in the pan, the crackle of chicken frying. One OUGHT to want to please her. But then, because my papa had no money, you understand, he sent me to a convent. Her back had stiffened, and her hazel eyes looked steadfastly ahead. He reached a silver cigar and cigarette box from the sideboard and put it before his father-in-law, and for a time the preliminaries of smoking occupied them both.
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