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It is not for myself I fear. “Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks. “How do you know?” “Well, it isn’t exactly a depressing state, is it?” “YOU don’t know. Don’t touch the handle, Annabel! Curse the thing, you’ve jammed it now. I want my freedom. "But if it is thy will to take me from him," she continued, as soon as her emotion permitted her,—"if he must be left an orphan amid strangers, implant, I beseech thee, a mother's feelings in some other bosom, and raise up a friend, who shall be to him what I would have been. Or, after all, is it worth while? The Channel is a little broader than the Boulevards— but one crosses it sometimes.
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