They are their mother’s sons. ‘You have every right to be angry with me. When he awoke, it was late in the day; but though he heard voices outside, and now and then caught a glimpse of a face peeping at him through the iron grating over the door, no one entered the prison, or held any communication with him. My name is Annabel, not Anna. ‘Go on up to the boy, my dear. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. You might trust me with the Chevalier himself,—I'd never betray him. .
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