” When he brought home papers from Florence verifying that she had been declared dead having committed suicide the fateful day at the manor, she could barely believe Gianfrancesco’s signature at the bottom of the page. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. At length, however, by dealing blows right and left with their swords, and even inflicting severe cuts on the foremost of the rabble, the soldiers managed to gain a clear course, and to drive back the assailants; who, as they retreated behind the barricades, shouted in tones of defiance, "To Tyburn! to Tyburn!" The object of all this tumult, meanwhile, never altered his position, but sat back in the cart, as if resolved not to make even a struggle to regain his liberty. You did not learn that in a convent. And now take away those cards, and never let me see them again. He would take her with great force. Something in her voice and manner conveyed an effect of unwonted gravity to him. When the carpenter concluded his recital, Jonathan was for a moment lost in reflection.
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