You have been her guardian angel. ‘Because I love you. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. “Annabel,” she said brusquely. Don't be frightened of her. It is a most wonderful piece of good fortune, as I suppose you will be prepared to admit. Pity he's ta'en to bad ways so airly. The Jacobite. ” “We’ve come past it, miss,” the man answered, with a note of finality in his gruff voice. She felt as if she had struck them unawares.
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