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. He poured a pinch of tobacco into his palm and sniffed. A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. Spurlock was invariably at the high desk in the early morning, poring over ledgers, and giving the beach and the stores an occasional glance. " "Nonsense," returned Jonathan gruffly.
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