It was Ramage, the occupant of the big
house at the end of the Avenue. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears,
Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. But there's a person in the hall—a very odd sort of man—waiting to see him,
who won't be sent away. Bought the freedom of a sing-song girl; and all the
while you knew you'd have to tote the girl back. And she’s
pluck to the backbone. Kneebone, who had drained his glass
to the restoration of the house of Stuart, and the downfall of the house of
Hanover, more frequently than was consistent with prudence, consented; and the
trio set out for Wych Street, where they arrived in the jolliest humour possible. She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though
she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the
verge of a cardinal crisis. A married man!—the kind I've never been able to lure down there! But
keep your temper in check. “Please forgive me. 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.
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This video was uploaded to parabolanews.com on 14-07-2024 03:06:24