She rested for a half hour in heaven on earth, feeling herself drift in and out of sleep. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. This is your moment. "Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear. "I've been always true to you. Gay," he added, turning to the poet. "Spare me!" Jonathan, however, instead of answering him, searched for his knife, with the intention of severing his wrist. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work.
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