" Mr. “God in Heaven, Annabel!” he cried. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. “Was he really?” She asked, waiting on baited breath. Feeling rather exhausted, it occurred to him that possibly some provisions might have been left by the constable; and, looking about, he perceived a pitcher of water and a small brown loaf on the floor. The simile started a laugh in his throat.
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