He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. She found she was trembling at his nearness and full of a thrilling dread that he might touch her. ‘I wish you joy of the wench. "Very well," said Rachel, with a toss of her pretty head, "very well. This was just what he needed. "And the Marchioness is your daughter," added Thames. “You are mine, Annabel, and nothing shall ever make me give you up. .
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