My heart fails me. And if she is not a nun, nor a refugee, and yet is entirely English, I’m hanged if I know what she is. He sent a speculative glance at the immobile yellow face. ‘I wish you joy of the wench. A chain, riveted to an iron belt encircling her waist, bound her to the wall. He was content to talk about himself, though in the back of his clever mind he already suspected that she was not offering any details about her life. I can esteem him, regard him; but, love him as he ought to be loved—that I cannot do.
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