“She told you that?” “Yes. "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. Below the window he saw two coolies carrying a coffin, which presently they callously dumped into a yawning pit. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly.
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