Winifred listened to his narration with the profoundest attention; and, when it concluded, her tearful eye and throbbing bosom told how deeply her feelings had been interested. “What have you done to yourself?” he muttered. "And the will?" he said, with forced calmness. Drawing a pistol, and unclosing his lantern with the quickness of thought, he then burst through an open trap-door into a small loft. Still, here we are in this dingy, foggy city. A disconcerting gray eye that had a mystifying depth. After all, his was a pleasant face, and a pleasant voice, and very likely Annabel had behaved badly. There was nothing in the pockets of the coat. There, hanging among Ann Veronica’s more normal clothing, was a skimpy dress of red canvas, trimmed with cheap and tawdry braid, and short—it could hardly reach below the knee.
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