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. He had, however, planned brilliant careers for his two sons, and, with a certain human amount of warping and delay, they were pursuing these. Her anger died and she eyed him. Why, he can scarcely be twenty.
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