Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. She would not look at him, would not think of him; when her mind wavered, then she muttered to herself in the darkness so as to keep hold of her generalizations. “Sir John!” Annabel gasped. " "Don't anger him, my dear son," implored the poor widow, with a look of anguish at Jack.
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