“What’s that young lady’s name—girl in dark brown, stranger here?” Mr. . She was no longer there. It's mighty lonesome down there for a man bred to cities. Deserted by his older companion in iniquity, and instigator to crime, he did not know what might become of him; nor, as we have observed, was the sad spectacle he had just witnessed, without effect. “Annabel! God in Heaven, it is Annabel!” She did not speak. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering.
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