Is it so, Annabel?” “I did not know,” she faltered, “anything about you. ” She said. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. His diminutive hand flew out from behind his back like a wounded bird. ’ ‘I was called in, ma’am, to catch a French spy—at least, that is what Pottiswick thought. A brief calm succeeded. She calls us her guests, but in reality we are her prisoners.
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