‘I have an excellent excuse to remain comfortably ensconced in my parlour here, able to indulge in my favourite pastime. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. Annabel thought, and thought again. We'll have him yet. Luckily it was so dark, and there was no lamp near, that the man did not notice the condition of the body, which was placed in the vehicle by the two young men. Don’t favour your father much, either, if it comes to that. He had heard this talk before. She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. This moment couldn’t be better until the next moment comes.
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