She speedily reached her own abode,—a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of the village. He looked across at Annabel, and he groaned. Perhaps, she may tell me whose picture this is. She calls us her guests, but in reality we are her prisoners. And it is not at all his affair. The female’s words caught at his attention, and he no longer heard what the young Poussaint girl was saying to him. I am Lucilla Froxfield, you must know. ” For a moment or two he did not speak.
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