You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap. In the obscurity in which it was now seen, it looked like a prison, and, indeed, it was Jonathan's fancy to make it resemble one as much as possible. “You will be so good as to leave us your correct name and address, mademoiselle,” he said curtly. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell.
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