"Again," cried Jonathan, sternly: "beware!" "What!" vociferated Trenchard. She could not look at him through an interval that seemed to her a vast gulf of time. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. He would never be able to compose upon it, but it would serve to produce the finished work.
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