I am sorry to seem to hurt you, but all I say is for your good. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. There was only one small grated window in this hold, which admitted but little light. Recovering himself quickly his instinct of self-defence was quicker than his recollection of Anna’s presence.
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