A few steps brought him to the door of the vault in which his mother was immured. “Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. A door slammed. She is more dear to me than anything else. ‘What are you, a nincompoop? She was Nicholas’s wife, of course. “Anything is better than this—this stifled life down here. Seems as she don’t trust soldiers easy. But there's a person in the hall—a very odd sort of man—waiting to see him, who won't be sent away. "You know what I mean," said the trader, gravely. I’ve got too much work. "You are my prisoner, Jack.
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