The arrested women were herded in a passage of the Panton Street Police-station that opened upon a cell too unclean for occupation, and most of them spent the night standing. The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. “You don’t propose, do you,” she said quietly, “that I should take this man for my husband?” “You can drive him away,” Annabel cried. She had the dowry she needed for the lawyers were working to give her Remenham House. She romanticized, imagining a life on the High Seas.
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