And imprinting a kiss upon his mother's cold lips, he left the room. ‘Bête,’ she flung at him. She began to think persistently of Capes, and it seemed to her now that for some weeks at least she must have been thinking persistently of him unawares. The likeness was ridiculous. "To-night it is their turn," said Jonathan, binding up his wounded fingers with a handkerchief.
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