That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. “Sure, I guess so. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. They had escaped from the New Prison, it is true; but the wall of Clerkenwell Bridewell, by which that jail was formerly surrounded, and which was more than twenty feet high, and protected by formidable and bristling chevaux de frise, remained to be scaled.
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