“How have you been, my dear? Up to no good, I see. ‘Ah, the tragedy. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. " "Loved me! You!" "I loved you," continued Jonathan, "and struck by your appearance, which seemed above your station, inquired your history, and found you had been stolen by a gipsy in Lancashire.
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