” “Yes. . ” “I do it—of my own free will,” said Ann Veronica, kissing his hand again. The oranges were of the Syrian variety, small but filled with scarlet honey. A thickly-set, sandy young man, with an unwholesome complexion and grease-smooth hair, had entered the room. And like that gospel it meant something, something different from its phrases, something elusive, and yet something that in spite of the superficial incoherence of its phrasing, was largely essentially true. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. The mob now directed their attention to Newgate; and, from their threats, appeared determined to fire it.
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