"What do you think of your nephew, Sir Rowland?" whispered Jonathan, who sat with his back towards Thames, so that his features were concealed from the youth's view. Occasionally the flames would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred himself. Hearing the approach of the rider, Mr. Wood sank, submissively, into a chair, while his daughter hastened to execute her arbitrary parent's commission. She stood on the mat instead, and looked down on him. She told you —the truth.
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