Alarmed by these prognostications of a storm, and feeling too much exhausted from his late severe treatment to proceed further on foot, Wood endeavoured to find a tavern where he might warm and otherwise refresh himself. “For seven years,” said Ann Veronica, “I have been trying to keep myself from thinking about love. Don’t be afraid to go on thinking it. She rapped again, louder. ’ ‘Ah, no?’ She saw his guard relax and lunged again. “Of course I will,” he answered. "The worst house in the neighbourhood—the constant haunt of reprobates and thieves," groaned Wood. ” “The only Montague Hill I ever knew,” Annabel said slowly, “is dead.
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