“Is it any one you know?” Brendon asked. “Something. On the way, he hired a chair with a couple of stout porters, and ordered them to follow him. Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped. A man, then, rushed up the entry, and, seizing the unlucky carpenter by the collar, presented a drawn sword to his throat. I am the richest man in England.
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