"Enough," said Jack, recovering his composure. Jack may be capable of much that is wicked, but he would never lift his hand against his friend,—of that I am assured. He had chosen his time well. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. You'll never be guided by me—never!" "Indeed, my love, you're entirely mistaken," returned the carpenter, endeavouring to deprecate his wife's rising resentment by the softest looks, and the meekest deportment.
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