There was no way of recalling the words; so she waited. A slow anger burned in the man. "So I will," rejoined Shotbolt; "so I will. It’s not you—not a bit. “I think we have,” he answered, gravely, and took her in his arms, and smoothed her hair from her forehead, and very tenderly kissed her lips. Now the pig knew where to find her—for it would not take long for a Catholic to locate the convent in Golden Square—even if she escaped him here.
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