“Sure, but it’s not like you’re married, you know. “Indeed,” she said, “it was very fortunate that I should have met you this afternoon. But the Remenhams in the days of Charles the First, with the need for an escape route from Cromwell’s increasingly victorious forces, had cut a trapdoor through its floor into the cellars below, and thence hewn the long rough passageway that led underground right outside the boundary of the estate. Shall I send him to Sir John?” Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent. In this cell was a huntsman, who had fractured his skull while hunting, and was perpetually hallooing after the hounds;—in that, the most melancholy of all, the grinning gibbering lunatic, the realization of "moody madness, laughing wild.
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