“It’s no sort of good, Ann Veronica, pretending one does believe when one doesn’t. Love stories!… A sob rushed into her throat, and to smother it she buried her face in a pillow. Her head dangled unnaturally for an instant, unleashed from its moorings, then sank to join her husband’s on the floor. Uttering a few inarticulate ejaculations,—for he was completely out of breath,— the fugitive placed a bundle in the arms of the carpenter, and, regardless of the consternation he excited in the breast of that personage, who was almost stupified with astonishment, he began to divest himself of a heavy horseman's cloak, which he threw over Wood's shoulder, and, drawing his sword, seemed to listen intently for the approach of his pursuers. She became angry with herself. It was—in connection with this man Hill.
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