“It is very good of you to come and see me, my dear sister,” Annabel remarked, throwing herself into a low chair, and clasping her hands over her head. The expression was wholly different. Shotbolt, who had in some degree recovered from the effects of his previous mortification, was thrown into an ecstacy of delight, and could not sufficiently exult over the prisoner. Indeed, it is rather a matter of whose death is close. He appeared to be strangely uncommunicative, though I tried to draw him out.
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