” “The good God!” Anna murmured, herself shaken with fear. Wood. What's-your-name?" "Shotbolt, Sir," replied the jailer. White, I am not sure that I could afford to come to you. She went to a writing-desk and made some memoranda on a sheet of note-paper, and then remembered that she had no address as yet to which letters could be sent. “Then I will do what I can,” Anna promised.
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