She tried to compose her thoughts, to think of the last six months, to steep herself in the calm beauty of the surroundings. “Tell me,” he said; “speak to me. Montague Hill?” Annabel put her hand suddenly to her throat and steadied herself with the back of a chair. Something in her lack of embarrassment irritated him. Austin, may repeat it if he pleases to his master, Jonathan Wild,—I have not. His voice now had lost its ironies.
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