“Touch a hair on his head and you will insure that I will never make love to you again. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. When Jack entered the cell, she was talking to herself in the muttering unconnected way peculiar to her distracted condition; but, after her eye had rested on him some time, the fixed expression of her features relaxed, and a smile crossed them. It was Annabel who caught at the paper. You’re mine. ‘I suppose I need not ask to which other soldier you refer.
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