The remainder of dinner was surreal and stilted. " "From some of your associates?" "From your uncle, from my uncle,—Sir Rowland Trenchard. Besides, my husband has shares in Sir John’s company. The thing is done. And for me there is only one treasure-house. I wanted the magic of love. Moored to the steps, several wherries were dancing in the rushing current, as if impatient of restraint. Both advanced towards it, when, by the light of the lantern, Wood beheld, in the countenance of the stranger, the well-remembered and stern features of Rowland. There haven't been so many ladies in the Lodge since the days of Claude Du Val, the gentleman highwayman; and they all declare it'll break their hearts if he's scragged.
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