"Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. She broke a cobblestone over his head and he was out. His tone was kind and sympathetic. ‘I kissed you once, didn’t I?’ Her pulses jumped and she stared. For a few minutes he kept them at bay. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. I may say that the amount of the annuity I propose to allow you is two hundred a year.
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