207 She romanced a dark-haired farmer a few times, having long since forgotten his name. I tell you that I love you, Anna, and I believe that you love me. . To-night all London believes that he was your husband. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. He renewed his supplications to Sharples, but with no better success than heretofore; and the greater part of the night was passed by him and the poor widow, whose anxiety, if possible, exceeded his own, in the most miserable state imaginable. “Annabel at last,” he shouted.
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