Someone bounded up the stairs, which groaned from the strain, unmistakably Mike. We may meet—who can tell? But I will not be fettered, even though you would make the chains of roses. The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. They were Jonathan Wild and Quilt Arnold. If you do not help me to read the riddle of yourself, Annabel, I think that very soon I shall be a candidate for the asylum.
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