"We'll see that," replied Jonathan. Then she sat watching the play, sometimes offering a helpful suggestion, sometimes letting her attention wander to the smoothly shining arms she had folded across her knees just below the edge of the table. It still failed in something. She just sat and told me that was her arrangement. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. "No," answered Jack, approaching her, "though, if I had done so, he would have merited his fate. She has power over men’s fates in more ways than one.
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