It was a serene and charming evening, and twilight was gently stealing over the face of the country. Here was a little corner of the past—a tragic corner. Shotbolt, the head turnkey of Clerkenwell Prison, and Mr. Annabel set her teeth hard, and turned fiercely towards Anna. Don’t leave me. He leaned forward, and looked into the eyes of the woman he loved, and it seemed to him that she sang back to him with a sudden note of something like passion breaking here and there through the gay mocking words which flowed with such effortless and seductive music from her lips. In the obscurity in which it was now seen, it looked like a prison, and, indeed, it was Jonathan's fancy to make it resemble one as much as possible. ‘In fact, I’ve never met anyone who goaded me to so much violence.
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