Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. Most of them didn’t, anyhow. " So saying, he descended a short spiral staircase, and, entering a long stone gallery, from which several other passages branched, took one of them, and after various turnings—for he was familiar with all the intricacies of the prison— arrived at the cell of which he was in search.
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