I don’t wish to marry you at all. A hundred pounds to the man who takes him. Only her face was clear, frail and delicate, almost flower-like, with the sad haunting eyes ever watching his. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. Shotbolt, who had in some degree recovered from the effects of his previous mortification, was thrown into an ecstacy of delight, and could not sufficiently exult over the prisoner.
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