” “The only Montague Hill I ever knew,” Annabel said slowly, “is dead. I have been used to living in apartments in Paris, but I suppose the system is different here. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. Gazing into each other's eyes with new-found rapture, neither observed the sudden appearance in the doorway of an elderly woman in travel-stained linen. You cannot possibly leave me here alone with Gerald. And, as usual,” she continued, a little bitterly, “I seem to have been sent along with the dullest and least edifying of Mrs. Nuns, I mean. I’m turning into a big fat cow. You have a daughter, no? Madame Ibstock, I think. At length, about an hour before dawn on the second day—Sunday—having spent the early part of the night in watching at the gates of the robbers' sanctuary, and being almost exhausted from want of rest, she set out homewards. Lucy's grin faded. "If you were sure o' that we might seize him, and get the reward for his apprehension.
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