I love my husband. But the Remenhams in the days of Charles the First, with the need for an escape route from Cromwell’s increasingly victorious forces, had cut a trapdoor through its floor into the cellars below, and thence hewn the long rough passageway that led underground right outside the boundary of the estate. If they entered a shop, he paused by the doorway, as if waiting for the journey to be resumed. No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood. “I remember,” she said, “that the first night I saw you, you spoke of my sister as your friend. "He will be murdered!—Help!" "My child!—my love!" cried Wood, dragging her forcibly back.
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