“Forgive you, indeed. They had escaped from the New Prison, it is true; but the wall of Clerkenwell Bridewell, by which that jail was formerly surrounded, and which was more than twenty feet high, and protected by formidable and bristling chevaux de frise, remained to be scaled. Oh, goodness! Bilking! Ann Veronica, you’re a bilker!” Pause. “Why, what is the matter with you? What do you mean?” Annabel laughed scornfully. She said there was no other way to get them to stop their constant screaming. Plote was sleeping or deaf. She could smell the savory tinge of his sweat in the air. Ramage’s bitterness passed as abruptly as his aggression. There was a little pause between them, full for Ann Veronica of rapid elusive suspicions and intimations. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon.
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