What's-your-name?" "Shotbolt, Sir," replied the jailer. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. “Sir John!” Annabel gasped. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. The flowers and turf, a wild strawberry, a rare butterfly, and suchlike little intimate things had become more interesting than mountains. Heigho!" "Now for it!" cried Jack, as the couple entered the room: "the coast's clear. ‘To read and write, of course, and to sew.
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