She wanted to scream, but there was no one to scream for. There was something about their greeting and the tone of Annabel’s exclamation which puzzled her. A chill ran through his frame, and, grasping the heavy weapon with which chance had provided him, prepared to strike down the first person who should enter the cell. “A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical.
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