He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts. At table he carved in a gloomy but resolute manner. He knocked on the doorframe. Brown broke the silence. There are times when you make me feel a little thing at your feet—a young, silly, protected thing. 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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