“It is the same man, Annabel,” she said. In the end he broke his own heart along with your mother's. A white apron was tied round his waist, and into the apron was thrust a short thick truncheon, which looked very much like a rolling-pin. “Cheer up, Annabel. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. ‘Read that,’ and threw the telegram at me, so that it went into the tureen. " "Come along," thundered Jonathan.
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