‘And it is not only a question of her identity, but a matter of her life as well. " "Is he alive!" vociferated Trenchard. The vault, in which Sir Rowland found himself, resembled in some measure the cabin of a ship. Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult. “You must not think of me as one. Then to Martin's brandy-shop, in Fleet Street.
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