‘Gérard—’ ‘What now?’ he asked, rife with suspicion. She took the tray with both hands, gulped, and gave way to tears. “I will have your true reason. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. Of course, there'll be a few kinks to straighten out. That was how she projected it, and in general terms it seemed plausible and possible. "You know my motive well enough," answered Jonathan. The smile had become a laugh. The baby crawled towards them, seeking their blood. "His name, I say!—his name!" thundered the knight. As he took his departure, he whispered to the Jew: "Take him dead or alive; but if we fail now, and you heard him aright in Seacoal Lane, we are sure of him at his mother's funeral on Sunday.
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