In the little apartment, under the gas chandelier, his inches and his stoop were certainly very effective. "I have never been out of this horrible dungeon since we last met," he said; "though how long ago that is, I scarcely know. Purney's hand-writing," said Jack, advancing, "and can at once decide whether this is a forgery or not. “Very well,” he said. But she did not speak. “Annabel, I begin to see why you are here. She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery.
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