Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. "I was only commenting. You are the High Priestess of Life. Will you be a faithful and honest wife? Will you do your duty by him, and forget all your past follies? Unless, Annabel, you can——” “Oh, I will pledge you my word,” Annabel cried passionately, “my solemn word. “You go home and think of all this,” he said, “and talk about it to-morrow. She wants that and needs it more than anything else in the world. I suppose this is the sort of damned rubbish—” “Oh! Ssh, Peter!” cried Miss Stanley.
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