" "And perish upon the gibbet," rejoined Jonathan contemptuously. ‘Do you know, Mademoiselle Charvill, you are a thought too clever for your own good. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. " "Perhaps not," replied Jack, to whom an idea had suddenly occurred.
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