All the turnkeys were assembled. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. There were lines in her face that age had not put there. “I think, aunt,” she said, “you might trust to my self-respect to keep me out of that. I want my freedom. A crowd was collected round the fellow, who was rapidly disposing of his stock. “Annabel! God in Heaven, it is Annabel!” She did not speak.
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