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She was weeping now. But the Remenhams in the days of Charles the First, with the need for an escape route from Cromwell’s increasingly victorious forces, had cut a trapdoor through its floor into the cellars below, and thence hewn the long rough passageway that led underground right outside the boundary of the estate. “My darling!” he said, clasping her resolutely in his arms, “my dearest!” “Mr. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. ” She was frightened—his anger always did frighten her—and in her resolve to conceal her fright she carried a queen-like dignity to what she felt even at the time was a preposterous pitch. But if I were you, I shouldn't warn Spurlock.
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