Steps to aid the descent, which was too steep to be safe without them, led to, a door on the opposite side. A male voice, vibrant with terror, yelled out hoarsely. I would not think so of you, Marthe. To his relief, she nodded. All the turnkeys rose to salute the thief-taker, whose habitually-sullen countenance looked gloomier than usual. He felt that he might soon be separated—perhaps, for ever—from the fond little creature he held in his arms, whom he had always regarded with the warmest fraternal affection, and the thought of how much she would suffer from the separation so sensibly affected him, that he could not help joining in her grief. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered.
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