The old woman told him she had no such article to dispose of, but recommended him to a neighbouring blacksmith. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year. “I wish he had,” she said. That had shut him up for a while. There, that sounds frightfully involved, doesn’t it, but perhaps you can make out what I mean. "I'll be his evil genius!" vociferated Jonathan, who seemed to enjoy her torture. He got up.
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