There was a lock, apparently more than a foot wide, strongly plated, and girded to the door with thick iron hoops. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. ‘You have said you do not wish to marry me,’ she accused. ‘Do not mix yourself in mine, and perhaps you will not die. ” “A man does,” said Manning—“a true man, anyhow. “Annabel!” she exclaimed.
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