"What would my poor mother say to it?" "I was sorry to see that about your mother, Jack," observed Hogarth. She looked upon it with pity as she drank his diabetic blood and saw that several of his fingers were missing. "No," replied Jonathan, moodily. This employment seemed to afford him the highest satisfaction; for a diabolical grin—it cannot be called a smile—played upon his face all the time he was engaged in it.
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