“You are mine, Annabel, and nothing shall ever make me give you up. Barleycorn had sent to the mat for the count of nine: unless the young fool's daddy had a bundle of coin. Perhaps my wife has already prepared you for what I wish to say. Very likely by this time the whole truth is known. He whispered in her ear. You are yet a child; and though you have strayed from the right path, a stronger hand than your own has led you thence. He heard the struggle on the landing, the fall of the heavy body, the groan,—and excited almost to frenzy by his fears, he succeeded in forcing open the door. It had neither succumbed to her nor wrathfully overwhelmed her.
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