Another door was next opened, and, preceded by the ordinary, with the sacred volume in his hand, the prisoner entered the room. The idea that he held in his arms the girl whom he had once so passionately loved, and for whom he still retained an ardent but hopeless attachment, almost overcame him. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. ‘I do not understand you.
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