Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. Contenting himself with brandishing the weapon in the Jew's eyes, he exerted all his force to prevent him from rising. Here he was hotly pursued. “Look at our affair,” he went on, looking up at her. "Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her fingers. The only thing they don’t fight over is the addition. “You are quite right, I think.
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