But you,” he continued, moving imperceptibility a little nearer to her, “you are mine. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. You truly are your mother’s, Lucia. The prisoner, however, submitted more quietly than was anticipated. It was bad luck to go to Canongate. The weather harmonized with their feelings.
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