“Now I should like to know,” she said, looking at him with a quiet smile, “what you are doing here? It is not a particularly inspiring neighbourhood for walking about by yourself. They talked lightly but confidentially until Sir John approached them with a slight frown upon his face. Clotilde’s stunning green eyes were reflected in the gazes of the tender young children, but their faces had been hollow and sunken, their hair matted, and their clothing in bad need of repair. In their opinion a hundred pounds would not repair the damage done to the prison. And, with a glance of malignant exultation, he quitted the vault, and locked the door. “I think this ends the business,” he said, turning to his sister. His name was Peter.
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