Sheppard, as a storm of furious voices resounded from below, and torches were seen mounting the stairs; "they are coming!—they are coming!—fly!—to the roof! to the roof. Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels. Jonathan kept his keen eye fixed upon him, as he addressed himself for a moment to the Hollander. She let them fall and sped to the companion, where she stood for a moment, the moonlight giving her a celestial touch. He looked at her for a moment in a puzzled sort of way. “Dear me!” he said. “The Annabel who lives here, who sings every night at the ‘Unusual’? They call her by your old name.
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