He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. He held down the light, and a moment afterwards beckoned, with a blanched cheek, to Rowland. Your mother, for instance, couldn’t. He spent the evening telling her stories of Greece as she sat in front of a roaring fire. But men are so careless, there's no trusting anything to them! However, I must try to brazen it out.
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