It opened and a nun’s head popped out. It was as if her aesthetic sense had become inflamed. The houses overhung in a frightful manner, and looked as if the next gust would precipitate them into the river. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. Warm reality was now so near her she could hear it beating in her ears. She fidgeted and looked away. “Nor am I now,” he answered. " "Suppose he brings Blueskin, or some other ruffian with him," hesitated the jailer.
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