F. She was to be handed over with her dowry of three thousand Florins, plus her pet bird, six chickens, her mother’s fine linens, a small book of poetry. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work—or going home. She might scream until her voice failed; the natives would not come to her aid; they never meddled with the affairs of the whites. “You are mine, Annabel, and nothing shall ever make me give you up. Had she said the words aloud? He pulled her close and she nuzzled her head on his chest. But the wench who tricked me shall bitterly repent it.
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