Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. After much clapping, they started. . ‘Where the devil have you been?’ ‘Consorting with a nun in the gardens. He then scaled the northern tower, and made his way to the summit of that part of the prison which fronted Giltspur Street. A black-garbed young lad leapt out and let down the steps. ‘Don’t, miss,’ uttered the boy. Anna did not pause, but she looked over her shoulder with slightly lifted eyebrows.
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