“She’s my wife,” the man muttered. Angelina's distress over these mischances was pathetic. ’ She waved towards a handy table to one side which was piled high with so many volumes, it looked in imminent danger of crashing to the floor. "Not so, Sir Rowland," returned Jonathan; "you are my prisoner. This isn’t the place. Say that I will call again or let him know my address in London. However, it doesn't much signify. Probably she was married years ago and is now merely on the way to her husband's house.
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