"Well—well," grumbled Jonathan, "I suppose I must be content. I might have told you the truth. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. Why not? Quite willing. “You are of the genus obstinate,” he said. He uttered a short laugh. The dog approached timidly, his tail going furiously.
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