“It is a great art,” she said in broken English. You must know that. "I'll make myself intelligible before I've done," rejoined Wild. She was consumed by misery and hate. But he wrote on. She turned her head away sharply. 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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