Presently. Ruth stared into the painted face, now sundrily cracked by the coursing tears. ‘Dieu du ciel, for what do you take me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he threw at her. 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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