“And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica. Her soul was full of the sense of disaster. He—he has rather a poor opinion of his contemporaries. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage.
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