" "You believe—you know it," replied Jonathan, fixing one of his sternest and most searching glances upon him. She could feel his warm little body trying to snuggle into her, trying to wriggle loose of his swaddling cloth. Get a license—just an idea of mine. The bed was hard beyond any experience of hers, the bed-clothes coarse and insufficient, the cell at once cold and stuffy. ’ But I made sure it was you. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow.
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