She would be haunted by the visions of their mad faces in her dreams for the next hundred years. "There," cried Jackson, closing the book and rising, "that'll do. Not I. Kneebone—she was too well acquainted; having, more than once, been obliged to repel his advances; and, though his impertinence would have given her little concern at another season, it now added considerably to her distraction. She knew that to expect more now was like anticipating a gold-mine in the garden.
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