Ann Veronica looked down at her fingers on the claret-colored table-cloth. "Yes, my angel, to her—rest her soul! She extorted it from me, and bound me by a solemn oath to fulfil it. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. But I may yet live to thwart them. It was easy to imagine great power in such a man. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street.
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