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She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. She could not see what occurred, though she guessed it; but she saw Jonathan's devilish triumphing glance, and read in it,—"Your son has committed a robbery—here—in these holy walls—he is mine—mine for ever!" She uttered a loud scream, and fainted. She nursed at his neck as he peacefully slumbered through being killed. ‘Thought you were going to break in here,’ he said, in an impatient whisper. A certain irritation crept into his manner as he did so. And the grotesquest fact was that she did not so much loathe, as experience with a quite critical condemnation this strange sensation of being kissed. At the back of her mind, dim and yet disconcerting, was the perception that she herself did not know what she wanted. He hesitated. Something in her lack of embarrassment irritated him.
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