There was the stile on which Jonathan had sat, and he recollected distinctly the effect of his mocking glance— how it had hardened his heart against his mother's prayer. I've got to know why. Too late now. You seemed, he thought, to have some grievance which you would not explain and which he thought must arise from a misunderstanding. “Another young woman, I suppose,” he said, “who knows better than her Maker about her place in the world.
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