She put a hand to the lad’s cold cheek and choked on a sob. You know—if you want freedom. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. But then you're an adopted son, and that makes all the difference. Death belongs to God, young man. On their return, the jailers raised up Jonathan, who was weltering in his blood, and who appeared to be dying.
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