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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. It ought never to have begun. Her face expressed nothing. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. “I do want you. "Was I out of my head?" "Yes. ’ As a matter of fact, I am not. I don’t know what has come over me. He must be more or less of an age with this man. Slowly Prudence Sindlesham nodded her head, her eyes never leaving his face. “It’s bound to be all right,” she said. "Fire! That was what drew me to you in the beginning.
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