Then they would leave and she would go back to being alone. “It is the same man, Annabel,” she said. “Good evening, Dorling,” he said. They were all stout ill-favoured men, attired in the regular jail-livery of scratch wig and snuff-coloured suit; and had all a strong family likeness to each other. But he could only utter an inarticulate exclamation.
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