His eyes were bright, and his voice had in it an unaccustomed timbre. “That sounds so uncouth,” she murmured. “And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. A child—as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you have done; I don't care. “Smirched!. It’s a pure joy of giving—giving to YOU. 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.
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